PS 3513 
.R66 P6 
1911 
Copy 1 


PRICE OF MONEY ’ 

PLAY i ; BY LUKE NORTH 


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©Cl.D 23369 







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THE 

PRICE OF MONEY 

A PLAY IN FOUR ACTS 



By Luke North 

Copyright 1911 by James H. Griffes, as a dramatic composition. 

tion rights covered by separate copyright of same date. 

» 


PERSONS OF THE PLAY 


ALLEN MEAD, a broker 

MARTIN KANE, his friend 

CYRIL THOMAS, a very prominent citizen 

JOHN WILSON, the father of a happy home 

MARIAN WILSON, his wife 

GRACE WILSON, their daughter 


Publica- 


\ 


TIME AND PLACE 

The year 1910 of the Christian era, in Our Town— 
whose population by the federal census is 218,000, 
whose bank clearances “attest the soundness of our in¬ 
stitutions/ ’ whose building permits “show our marvel¬ 
ous growth,” and whose citizens point with pride to the 
annual report of the Chamber of Commerce. One morn¬ 
ing and two evenings in early summer. 


ACT ONE 

Scene : Real estate office of Allen Mead on the tenth 
floor of the Trust building. 

The entrance is at the center back. To the left* 
front are three chairs and an office desk partly hidden 
by a large screen that gives this corner almost the 
privacy of a separate room. To right front are sten¬ 
ographer’s desk and two chairs. In the center is a 
table on which are telephone, newspaper, city direc¬ 
tory, etc., with a chair at each side. On the walls 
are county maps and plots of subdivisions. To the 
right upper are built-in wardrobe and washstand. 
To left upper are filing cases, safe and another desk. 

As the curtain rises 

Grace Wilson enters 

She is decidedly comely, eighteen, with round, well 
featured face that expresses intelligence and an even 
temperament, but her most conspicuous charms are 
youth and freshness. 

She carries an armful of loosely gathered flowers 
which she lays on the table while doffing her hat and 
placing it in the wardrobe. She stops to fix her hair 


* Right and Left are from viewpoint of the audience. 





2 


The Price of Money 

at the glass, then returns to the flowers which she 
separates into two bunches, placing one on Mead’s 
desk and one on her own. Now she hesitates, blushes at 
her temerity, and takes the bunch from Mead’s desk 
back to the table. Surveying the room thus florally 
decked—it does not please her and she replaces the 
doubtful bouquet. It is better so. She starts to work 
—but, no; it might seem forward. Again she takes the 
flowers from his desk—then shakes her head. Ifrdoesn’t 
suit that way. She is about to replace them when the 
idea of a compromise occurs. Taking the flowers from 
her own desk she combines them with the others and 
leaves one large bunch on the table. This proves satis¬ 
factory, and with a sigh of relief she starts to work 
again. Presently she lapses into musing: 

Grace. Mother will make an exception of him. 

He is not like other men .... ( Her reverie is broken 
by the door opening sharply .) 

Martin Kane enters 

He is of slender build and average height, with 
sharply-cut features, dandified manners and garb; 
much older than the 30 years he feels, and some older 
than the 40 which he looks. 

Kane ( bowing elaborately and jauntily ). Good morn¬ 
ing, my dear. 

Grace (rising; aside ). O, not your dear. ( Severely ) 
Mr. Mead is not in. 

Kane. Ah, I’m too early for him. That’s lucky. Ial- 
ways was lucky. 

Grace. He has not come down yet. 

Kane ( advancing ). Am I invited to remain till he 
comes? 

Grace. You will find the morning paper on the 
table. ( Resumes her seat ) 

Kane. I would rather talk with you. 

Grace (icily). Won’t you be seated? (Returns to her 
work). 

Kane (aside ). It’s rather chilly for this time of the 
year. ( Turning ) What an effective way your hair is 
arranged. Must take you a long while every morning. 

Grace (off her guard an instant ). O, no— (then half- 
angrily, she turns to her keys and thumps furiously ). 

Kane (admiring). Isn’t she graceful? (Bends close) 
Do your eyes match your hair or contrast with it? 

Grace (despite herself looking up at him ; then sharply 
turning her back ). I am very busy. 

Kane. So am I. You’re the prettiest girl I have met 
in this town. Let me see your eyes again—come. 

Grace (hears a step; rises). Don’t! (Goes to door) 

Kane (following). Don’t means Do (He has his 
hand almost to her waist when the door opens to the left; 
they are to the right of it ). 


Act One 


3 


Allen Mead enters 

He is 30 and looks it—robust, rather carelessly 
dressed, thoughtful but optimistic in speech and man¬ 
ner. 

Grace (steps forward ). Here is a— someone to see 
you, Mr. Mead. ( Returns to her desk ) 

Kane. Allen, my boy. 

Mead. Well, well, this is a surprise I was thinking 
of you only the other day. When did you arrive? 
(They cross the room toward Mead’s desk). 

Kane. Been here two days. Have taken in the whole 
town. 

Mead. I’ll warrant you have—all the highlights, at 
any rate. Come here and sit down (;places chair for 
Kane, opens desk ; both seated). Well, has our town 
grown any in three years. You found it quieter, 
didn’t you. Lid on pretty tight, they tell me— 

Kane. Tell you? 

Mead. If they didn’t I’d never know. Let me open 
a letter or two, Martin. (He does so ) 

Kane. Reformed, eh? Church or skirt? 

Mead (laughing as he scans letters ). Neither. Just 
got tired of having a good time. Never could get any 
amusement out of it . . . Hope you’ll stay awhile, 
Martin. 

Kane. Don’t know yet ..... So Allen Mead is 
leading the quiet life. I expected as much. 

Mead. There’s a vacant desk here. You must 
make this your headquarters. 

Kane. Thanks, old man. I’ll use it. 

Mead. But how will New York worry along without 
you? 

Kane. O, Morgan can hold it down for a little while. 

Mead. Is there anything he can’t hold? 

Kane. Whatever the dear people might care to 
withhold. 

Mead It isn’t the people; it’s the system. That 
Wall street clique may have brains and reach, but 
it needn’t have. The system would pour the nation’s 
wealth in its lap if Morgan and his bunch were marble 
statues decorating a bottomless reservoir. 

Kane. They are marble, Allen, but I’m not so sure 
they’re decorative. However, I never heard Morgan 
speak unkindly of you. 

Mead (laughing). Probably not. But tell me, are 
you still in the paint business, Martin—red paint? 

Kane. O, I get around a little. I like to raise the 
lid and see the real works. Struck Tony’s last night. 
Say, there’s a quiet place for your money. 

Mead. Not my money. 

Kane. That’s right; never spend your own money. 
But the man you’re selling a lot—take him there. I’ve 



4 


The Price of Money 

a customer for some Arizona mines. Took him there 
and opened velvet water. He thinks I’m a prince. 
I am. He buys the stocks. 

Mead. Are they good? 

Kane. Maybe. They look pretty. 

Mead. There’s nothing in that sort of thing, Martin. 

Kane {drily ). Nothing but money .... I’d rather 
juggle insurance funds or railroad stocks, but I don’t 
seem to get in on those big games. Fifty thousand 
or so a year has to do me. 

Mead. O, I suppose there is little choice—if you 
must have easy money. Probably you never considered 
the fact that nothing is any good to you unless you give 
an equivalent for it. 

Kane. That’s out of print, Allen. There’s a revised 
edition. 

Mead. I dare say— 

Kane. Yes—the line of least resistance. 

Mead. That’s as old as the Vedas, but we don’t 
know which it is yet .... Let me make a note on 
this letter for the girl. (Writing ) 

Kane. Where did you get it, Allen? 

Mead. What? 

Kane (pointing to Grace). Your taste in dress goods 
is improving. 

Mead (not pleased ). You. mean the stenographer, 
Miss Wilson? 

Kane. Well, I’m not a mind reader. I couldn’t 
guess her name. She has the looks. Do you know she 
reminds me of the woman I met at Tony’s last night 
—something about her— 

Mead. Cut that, Martin, or you and I’ll quarrel. 
You can’t compare Miss Wilson— 

Kane. Indeed, indeed! Is it so, alas? 

Mead {vigorously ). I mean it, Martin. 

Kane. All right, old fellow. No harm. I apologize. 
But let me tell you about that woman I met at Tony’s. 
She surprised me. Much older than your {a gesture 
jrom Mead). O, I’m not coupling them. But a certain 
air about her. Carries her head that way. Intelligent 
—something refined in her manner, you know. Now 
I’ve been around and met a woman or two— 

Mead. Scores of them, no doubt—of a kind. 

Kane. O, they’re all alike— 

Mead. Not for a minute— 

Kane. Let me finish. They’re all alike in this respect 
—they need the money. 

Mead. But they won’t all pay the world’s price for it. 

Kane. Won’t they. Let me tell you a few things 
about women. 

Mead. Why can’t you fdrget them? [I did. 

Kane. I don’t want to, and they wouldn’t let me if 



Act One 


5 


Mead. Well I’m not running after them, 

Kane. That’s good; now they’ll run after you. 

Mead. I have a better opinion of women than that. 

Kane. H’m—that’s serious. Try an antidote. 

Mead. Were you ever serious, Martin? 

Kane. I can’t remember. 

Mead ( laughing ). What’s your antidote? 

Kane. Fall madly in love with two or three of them. 

Mead. About one would do me. 

Kane. Perhaps it would—if you found her indis¬ 
pensable to your life’s happiness and all that, and told 
her about it— 

Mead. Well? 

Kane. And you found her an iceberg the next day. 

Mead. Yes—if— 

Kane. It isn’t if. It works that way. When she’s 
got you body and soul then you’ve lost her. 

Mead. I shan’t lose many that way. 

Kane. There’s no other way to lose them. Indiffer¬ 
ence attracts them, but they’ve no use for the con¬ 
quered, nor for one who doesn’t ceaselessly conquer 
them. 

Mead. A good many will go unconquered if they 
wait for me. I have other things to do. 

Kane. For instance—? 

Mead. Well, it would keep one reasonably occupied 
to conquer himself a little. 

Kane. That’s work, the other’s play, and the game’s 
interesting. 

Mead. And doesn’t require much brains, I fancy. 

Kane. The fewer the better. Look at me. 

Mead {laughing ). When I do I see a libertine. 

Kane. It takes a libertine to understand women. 

Mead. Is there a penalty on not understanding 
them? 

Kane. You’re at their mercy then, and they haven’t 
any. 

Mead. Your view is superficial, Martin. 

Kane. It’s subject is superficial. 

Mead. O, I don’t believe woman is a mere bundle 
of nerves and emotions. 

Kane. Surely not. There’s the lingerie, the hosiery, 
the tailor-made skirt, and the rouge. 

Mead {laughing ). Martin, you’re a man of your own 
time. In you civilization is personified—its shallowness 
I mean, if you’ll stand for that. 

Kane. My carapace of self-esteem is impenetrable, 
Allen. Let it go that I’m in tune with the superficiali¬ 
ties of civilization, and you—with its illusions. 

Mead {laughing ). O, very well. {Thoughtfully ) What 
are its realities, I wonder? 

Kane {quickly ) . Dollars!! 



6 


The Price of Money- 

Mead. Yes; it’s either to be sex mad or money mad. 
Kane. It isn’t either; it’s both — if one has spunk 
enough to be mad. They’re inseparable, only the money 
must come first. 

Mead. One might scorn them both as passions. 

Kane. And be a dreamer. ( Suspiciously ) Allen, I 
believe you’ve got it. 

Mead. What? 

Kane. The dream bug. You’re going to change 
things—revolutionize society, alas! 

Mead. It needs it, doesn’t it? 

Kane. Not so much as you need the money, my boy. 

Mead. O, I won’t starve. 

Kane. But she has to dress. 

Mead. I might find one who would care to dream a 
little herself instead of dress. O, the world isn’t as 
bad as you picture it. 

Kane. It’s worse, or better. I like the game as it 
is, and this is how it is: Money will go so near getting 
you any woman you want, and the lack of it so near 
losing you any woman you wish to hold or win, that 
the exceptions are not worth considering. 

Mead. But there are exceptions. 

Kane. I’d rather admit than argue it, but the world 
isn’t run on exceptions. 

Mead (teasingly ). What is it run on, Martin? 

Kane (tersely ). Money. 

Mead. God! you’re right—almost. But money shall 
not run my life. 

Kane. Wake up, Allen. Woman needs the money 
and man must get it for her. Even her instincts are 
subordinate to it. . 

Mead. You’re language isn’t very choice, Martin, 
but it depicts the economic situation. 

Kane. I’m picking my facts, not my language. 
And the big fact is that woman is the property of man. 

Mead. We’re changing all that. 

Kane. You can’t—woman won’t let you. 

Mead. She’s being emancipated. 

Kane. From man’s tyranny, I suppose? 

Mead (smiling ). That’s the battle cry. 

Kane. You’re an honorary member of the League? 

Mead. Not yet. 

Kane. You’re eligible. Allen, you’re about the age 
of this civilization—and share its dreams. 

Mead. O, I’m not as old as civilization. 

Kane. Not as old, but as young. Civilization is at 
the age of feminine maturity. 

Mead. That’s not so bad. Where did you get that 
idea? 

Kane. It’s out of my favorite book of fiction. 

Mead. It sounds like fiction. 


Act One 


7 


Kane. It’s life’s fiction—which you won’t read till 
you have lost the illusions of this woman’s civilization 
of show. 

Mead. Yes, it’s mostly show — brass buttons, plati¬ 
tudes, and millinery—on the outside, but there’s a soul 
within. 

Kane. I haven’t found it. 

Mead. It isn’t on the surface. 

Kane. Woman is. When she becomes a reality to you 
instead of an ideal you’ll find the world is run by her. 

Mead. Man plans and shapes. 

Kane. Only the details. Woman plots the ensemble, 
and has her way. 

Mead. Then she’s not mere property. 

Kane. She’s the queen bee of the world’s hive. 
Man is always the slave of his property. 

Mead. Women are tired of being property. They de¬ 
mand recognition as individuals. 

Kane. Just a few. The rest of them want to rule— 
and they know how. 

Mead. Martin, you’re a cynic. 

Kane. Allen, you’re—thirty. 

Mead. Women are gaining the ballot. 

Kane. What of that? 

Mead. Men rule that way. 

Kane. Men don’t rule at all. 

Mead. They vote— 

Kane. As money dictates. Money is on the throne 
and woman is the power hehind it. 

Mead. See here, you’re getting tangled. You said 
women’s instincts were subordinate to money. Now 
you say she is the power behind the throne of money. 

Kane. Allen, you’re too serious. 

Mead. But which is the real power — woman or 
money? 

Kane ( nonchalantly ). O, both, of course. You wouldn’t 
suspect me of lying? 

Mead. I wouldn’t suspect you of anything else, when 
you’re talking such- 

Kane. Call it jargon: talk is all jargon, for the pur¬ 
pose of provoking thirst. Anything to drink? 

Mead ( offering cigar ). Take a smoke and forget the 
drink. I suppose you’ve reached the vicious circle? 

Kane {declining). No — cigarettes is the way I’m 
dying. ( Lights one ) Yes, the serpent gets his tail in 
his mouth—her, I mean. Woman is caught in her own 
toils. You get the money first and then the woman gets 
you. 

Mead. Yes, I guess that’s jargon. 

Kane. All talk is jargon, except when money talks. 

Mead. That’s the greatest jargon of all ... . Why 
don’t you write fiction, Martin? 






8 


The Price of Money 

Kane. Too busy living it. Life is the most fascinating 
fiction I ever read. 

Mead. Transcribe some of it into a quick seller. 

Kane. I can get the money easier. 

Mead. You’d make a good novelist. 

Kane. No. I haven’t enough illusions, and no urge to 
re-make women or men. They suit me as they are. 

Mead ( seriously ). There are deeper things in life, 
Martin, than your contact with it seems to have dis¬ 
closed—or it wouldn’t be worth while. 

Kane ( musingly ). Who said it was worth while? . . . 
But I’m still learning— 

Mead. It’s worth while to learn. 

Kane. There’s that woman I met at Tony’s— 

Mead. She “got you,” it seems. 

Kane. She awakened my curiosity. But no woman 
is going to get me. 

Mead. O, maybe you’re not fireproof. But tell me 
about her. I know you’re dying to. 

Kane ( readily ). The woman who did me the distin¬ 
guished honor of accepting my money last night was a 
unique experience. She’d revise some of your notions, 
Allen. You couldn’t have told her from a princess out 
of a story book. 

Mead. Young? 

Kane. Perhaps forty, but looking twenty-seven— 
modest, dainty, nothing coarse, no language—a real 
lady— 

Mead. I respect your judgement in a good many 
things, Martin — but ladies! O, of course, they’re all 
perfect ladies; the other kind are content to be women. 

Kane ( seriously ). The kind is one. ( Lightly , looking 
about ) Where do you keep it? 

Mead. Not a drop in the house. 

Kane. You used to keep a bottle—of the real stuff. 

Mead. It ran dry the day you left. 

Kane. Well, you know the alternative. 

Mead. I suppose I do. When Martin Kane comes to 
town it’s a drink every once in so often. 

Kane. Honestly, now, Allen, aren’t you thirsty after 
all this highbrow gabble? 

Mead ( closing desk ). Come along, old man. I’ll see 
that you don’t die of thirst in this town. ( Both go. 
Calls jrom doorway ): I’ll be right back, Miss Wilson. 

Grace. I hope he won’t bring Mr. Impudence back 
with him.He’s not really dangerous—only con¬ 

ceited .... 

Cyril Thomas enters 

He is large, stolid, pompous and eminently respect¬ 
able; partly bald, well dressed, and entirely serious 
—-a thoroly practical man. There are no frills or non¬ 
sense about him. He means business—eats, sleeps, 




Act One 


9 


and dreams it. Being of the masculine gender, how¬ 
ever, his eye is taken at once by the dainty figure at 
the typewriter. 

Thomas. I called to see Mr. Mead. 

Grace. He has just stepped out, but will return soon. 

Thomas. Ahem— I won’t be able to wait. Tell him 
Mr. Thomas looked in and have him call me up. 

Grace ( rising and getting papers). Mr. Thomas? O, 
then I have some work for you. 

Thomas. I don’t know anything about it— (he has 
been ogling her, and now hesitates ). I’ll look at it. 

Grace (handing papers ). The clerk ordered it. 

Thomas. Ah, yes; the contract. How much is it? 

Grace (shrinking from his steady gaze ). Two dollars 
is the regular charge, I believe. 

Thomas (hands bill jrom wallet). Here is ten dollars. 

Grace. O, I have no change! 

Thomas (with very meaning look ). You can keep the 
change. 

Grace shrinks, reddens, hands back bill, goes to her seat 
and turns her back. 

Thomas (lays bill on table beside her). I know that 
young lady stenographers do not receive large salaries 
and yet their expenses are considerable. You will oblige 
me, Miss— 

Grace (recoiling-, hotly). What right have you!— 

Thomas (seeing his mistake ). I meant no offense, my 
dear young lady. I’m afraid you’re too independent to 
prosper. Most young ladies are glad to accept a little 
help. 

Grace (savagely ). Save your money for them. I have 
all I want. 

Thomas (retreating to the door). H’m’m—. You will 
not forget my message to Mr. Mead, my dear young 
lady? (While speaking he opens the door; turns to have 
a parting stare at Grace. Absent-mindedly he reaches to 
open the door again, clumsily stumbles against it and al¬ 
most falls, making a noisy and undignified Exit.) 

Grace (laughs heartily—then musing). I’m getting 
lots of experience. It wouldn’t do to tell mother. 
She’d only worry and want me to stay at home. She’s 
suspicious of every man I meet— 

Mead and Kane re-enter 

The latter is still talking about the woman of Tony’s. 
They go to Mead’s desk. 

Kane. She’s a different type— 

Grace (to Mead). Mr. Thomas was here. He wants 
you to let him know when you can see him. 

Mead. Thank you. Call him up now, please. I’ll wait 
for him here. It’s Cyril Thomas—in the Security build¬ 
ing. (Passes on to desk and opens it). Go ahead,Martin. 
A new type, you were saying. 


10 


The Price of Money 

Grace looks up number in book, telephones as directed, 
then goes back to typewriter. 

Kane {who has preceded Mead to desk). I wish you 
could see her. You’d change your mind. 

Mead. O, pshaw! And you from New York. A 
woman who hangs around Tony’s— 

Kane. Nothing of the kind. She’s never seen there 
except on private, personal business—and she’s ex¬ 
pensive. They call her up at her home where she’s 
entertaining her lady friends with a pink tea, no doubt 
—or at the fashionable mother’s club where she’s 
reading a paper on home culture, probably. She 
comes in a taxi, is seen by no one but the new gentle¬ 
man friend. Queenly she receives his largess, then back 
she goes to her mother’s meeting or social function. 
Sometimes a luncheon or a supper, but it’s always 
private—for two only. She’s exclusive and particular. 

Mead. Is she good looking? 

Kane {hesitantly). Strange—you know I can’t re¬ 
member that. 

Mead. Well, if it’s all true, how do you account 
for it? 

Kane. She needs the money. 

Mead. Isn’t it hell that she does? 

Kane. I found it quite the reverse—an agreeable 
surprise. 

Mead. But the conditions that drive such a woman 
to get the money in that way. Isn’t it fiendish? 

Kane. O, I’m not bothering about conditions. It 
takes all my time to get the money. You’re tainted 
with socialism. 

Mead. I can’t help thinking— 

Kane. Don’t do it. Cut all that, or you for the 
poorhouse. 

Mead. There are worse things than the poorhouse. 

Kane. I wonder what they are? 

Mead. Mental prostitution, for one. It’s worse than 
physical. 

Kane. We’re all prostitutes. It’s an age of prostitu¬ 
tion. That’s its price for money. 

Mead. I don’t want money at that price. 

Kane. Well, you have three other chances. You 
can inherit it, find a gold mine, or turn burglar. 

Mead. I can go without it. 

Kane. That’s the one thing you can’t do. Much or 
little, its money first. Now listen to me, Allen: Social¬ 
ism is a good fad for the rich, but you need the money, 
and to get enough will take all your head power. 
Of course, a man wants recreation. Well, come with 
me to Tony’s; maybe she has a sister. 

Mead. O, that kind of woman doesn’t interest me. 

Kane. I tell you she’s not that kind. She’s a para- 


Act One 


11 


gon of decorum and respectability. 

Mead. But you bought her. She sells herself. 

Kane. Everything is bought and sold—and every 
one. 

Mead. What is purchasable is negligable. And a 
woman who is bought— 

Kane. You meet and respect them every day. 

Mead. Those who marry for money? You are draw¬ 
ing fine distinctions. 

Kane. It is you who are drawing distinctions. I’d 
bunch the whole matter and say that women commit 
matrimony for money. 

Mead. Some marry for love. 

Kane. None do. Marriage is a contract. Men 
marry to gain the exclusive use of a woman. Some¬ 
times they get it and sometimes they don’t. Women 
marry to be kept. 

Mead. Your language is coarse. 

Kane. It’s true. Love is one tiling, a contract is 
another. 

Mead. Well, it takes more than money to gain some 
women. There are women and women. 

Kane. And words and words. You’re talking psy¬ 
chology or something, my boy. I can see your finish— 
and you needing the money for your woman or woman. 
It’s time some one threw a life line to you. You’re in 
deep water. 

Mead. I’m learning to swim. 

Kane. It’s pleasanter to float. What are you doing 
to-night? 

Mead. Busy to-night. But maybe a little trip with 
you wouldn’t hurt very much. 

Kane. Blow away some of those cobwebs. 

Mead. Tomorrow night, say? 

Kane. Any time. 

Mead. Providing you lunch at the club with me to¬ 
day. 

Kane. Consider it settled. But, say—I’m curious 
—this Miss—what’s her name? 

Mead. Miss Wilson? She’s not every man’s prey. 

Kane. Is this the proprietor talking? 

Mead. Not at all. But she’s young, and has a 
world of hypocrisy to face. If you fell in love with her 
and she with vou, I’d have nothing to say. 

Kane. Your magnanimity is startling, Allen. 

Mead. O, you know what I mean, she’s no match for 
you. 

Kane. Any woman at any age is more than a match 
for any man. 

Mead. Perhaps—if he doesn’t use a club. 

Kane. Never used a club in my life, Allen. 

Mead. I’m not so sure of that. Society’s double 


12 The Price of Money 

standard of morality is as powerful as it is deceitful. 
It’s a masculine advantage when not a club. 

Kane. And maintained by women. Well, well, I 
wouldn’t hurt the little lady. But she mustn’t turn her 
big orbs on me. I’m susceptible, you know. 

Mead ( laughingly ). I’ll caution her about that. Here, 
read a bit while I get off some letters. ( Hands book; 
takes letters to Grace). You’ll find directions at the bot 

tom of these. We’ll let the rest go.That’s a fine 

bunch of flowers. 

Grace. Isn’t it ? They’re from Aunt Lucy’s. She has 
stacks of them in her yard—you ought to see them. 

Mead. I’d like to. You must take me there some¬ 
time—won’t you? 

Grace. That would be fun. 

Mead. Say Sunday? 

Grace. If mother hasn’t some other plans. I’ll let 
you know. ( Turns over the letters) 

Mead. Don’t forget it. 

Grace. I won’t. ( Scanning letters) What’s this ? I 
can’t make it out— 

Mead ( bending low). Nor I — let me see. ( Perhaps 
their heads are a little closer than necessary, as the doer 
opens and 

Thomas re-enters 

He stands at the door an instant and observes that 
Mead’s arm is — well — 

Thomas ( clears his throat). Good morning. 

Mead {surprised). O, that you, Mr. Thomas. {Goes 
forward) 

Thomas. I received your note about the lot on D 
street. You have a purchaser for it? 

Mead. Yes, I have his deposit and have given him a 
ten day’s option. He’ll pay $57,000, if the title is guar 
anteed. 

Thomas. There’s no trouble about the title. But 
$57,000—that’s too low. I can do better. 

Mead. Why, that’s a thousand more than your 
listed price of a month ago. It’s not three years since 
I bought it for you at $16,000. I did better than your 
listed price. 

Thomas. But that price was based on values before 
the D street car line was assured. I have a better offer. 

Mead. I have passed my word to the party. 

Thomas. One lias to go slow and consider his inter¬ 
ests. I am a man of family. {They are both at desk) 

Mead {introducing). This is my old friend, Mr. Kane 
of New York. 

Kane. O, not so old, Allen. 

Mead. Old in sin, I mean. You won’t deny that. 
Mr. Thomas, a client of mine. 

Kane. I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Thomas. 



Act One 


13 


Thomas. Good day, sir. ( All three are seated) 

Mead ( handing paper to Thomas ). Here’s the memo¬ 
randa of the option. 

Thomas puts on his glasses and reads. 

Mead. What do yon think, Martin—isn’t that a good 
increase—from $16005 to $57,000 in less than three 
years? 

Kane. Very good. After all, the real estate game 
is the safest. Everybody works for the landowner. 
It’s surer than the Kitty in a poker game, and just as 
profitable. 

Thomas ( looking over his glasses ). I must really dis¬ 
approve of hearing it called a game, Mr. Kane. I regard 
real estate as the very basis of wealth. ( Reads again) 

Mead. And its private ownership the basis of poverty 
It’s unearned increment — 

Kane. O, cut the economics, Allen. 

Thomas (who has caught only a word here and there). 
Ah, you speak of poverty and economy. I quite agree 
with you, gentlemen. Economy is the sovereign remedy 
for poverty. It is very painful to witness the extrava¬ 
gance of our lower classes. ( Reads again) 

Mead. Yes, you ought to see our lower classes flying 
around in their autos, Martin. Theater parties, wine 
suppers, liveried servants, Tony’s—every night when 
the day’s work is done. From factory and store to ten 
course dinners and joy rides. 

Kane (enjoys the irony of this, but regrets the evident 
sincerity beneath it). Let it go, Allen, let it go. You can’t 
better it. How is real estate in this city, Mr. Thomas? 

Thomas ( taking off his glasses). A very good field 
for investment—if one doesn’t buy on margins. I’m 
glad to see our young friend here isn’t given to such 
dangerous practices. 

Kane. O, it behooves him to play safe now. There’s 
going to be a wedding in his neighborhood. 

Thomas. Indeed. 

Mead. You’re wrong, Martin. I don’t believe in the 
institution of marriage. 

Kane. Good boy—nor do I. 

• Thomas (greatly shocked). Not believe in the insti¬ 
tution of marriage, gentlemen? I’m sure you must 
be joking. 

Mead. Kane is—all life’s a joke to him. But I’m 
serious enough. 

Kane. Yes, he’s serious—more than enough. 

Thomas. You don’t really think we should do away 
with the sacred institution of marriage, Mr. Mead? 

Mead. We are doing away with it pretty fast—if you 
read the papers, or look around your neighborhood, or 
consider my friend Kane and his life. And if you judge 
an institution by its results, I can’t find much to say 


14 


The Price of Money 

for marriage. It seems to separate men and women 
instead of drawing them into closer sympathy. 

Kane. Closer sympathy between men and women! 
He’d like to join east and west! Don’t you know that 
men and women are natural born enemies? 

Thomas ( sententiously ). Woman is man’s helpmate, 
Mr. Kane. 

Kane. Ah, I forgot that one. I thought it was check 
mate. But you’re right—its helpmate, Allen. 

Mead. Not very often in married life. The chains 
bear too heavily. 

Thomas. There are many happily united couple, I 
am sure. 

Mead. I am not so sure. There are some possibly. 

Kane. Show me. 

Mead. But many or few, the happiness of a couple 
is due to the natural harmony between them which 
persists in spite of the chains. 

Kane. Harmony between men and women ! 

Mead. As a rule men and women begin to tire of 
each other very soon after the institution of marriage 
has welded them for better or worse .... Of course, 
you fellows who flit around from one woman to another 
and never get settled in you sex relations— 

Thomas (sputtering ). Wh—wh—at! How! 

Mead. Pardon me, Mr. Thomas, I thought you’d know 
that I was alluding only to my friend, the rake. 

Thomas (mollified ). Ah—well. But aren’t you rather 
severe on your friend? 

Mead. Not at all. He has the confidence of his sins. 
( Kane bows facetiously) The inordinate pride of them, 
I mean .... But I think it would be better to mate 
permanently early in life, so that the sex nature should 
be tranquil and its energies go out in other directions. 
Life would be calmer and progress swifter. 

Kane. What dreams do come! 

Mead. Yes, monogamy is a dream to this age. 
Marriage has perverted the natural order. 

Kane. Monotony is not the natural order. 

Mead. Must man be whipped to keep him awake? 

Kane. He’d stagnate were his sex nature quiescent. * 

Mead. That’s as true as that idleness would ensue 
were the whip of poverty abated. It’s the lashing of 
human nature by sex and by poverty that holds it 
down to the trivial and exhausts its power prematurely. 
I’m not so sure that monogamy is the natural order, 
but it’s the human ideal. 

Kane. And he needing the money! Allen, you’ll 
drive me to drink—or to think. 

Mead. Impossible, in either case. 

Thomas (sententiously ). Marriage is the institution of 
monogamy, gentlemen 


Act One 


15 


Mead. That’s only its sham. It’s a property insti¬ 
tution, based on slavery, maintained by prostitution, 
and resulting in secret promiscuity. 

Kane. Well, it never troubled me very much. 

Mead. It never had a moral restraint on any one. 

Kane. Why bother then? 

Mead. O, its deceits! its hidden skeletons! its 
coarseness! the enmities it nurses, and the ostracism 
it visits on frankness and decency! 

Kane. And you’re going to cure all that? 

Mead. Marriage is wearing out itself. 

Thomas. I never heard such sentiments. They do 
you small credit, Mr. Mead. 

Mead. I should think a man would want a free worn 
an for a life partner. You can chain a woman, but 
you can’t chain her affections. I don’t want a chained 
slave in the house with me, nor would I be chained. 

Kane. Hear him talk. You think women have 
wings, Allen, but they haven’t. 

Mead. They might grow wings in time—and men, 
too, if we loosened the hands of the dead from their 
lives. Our progress is lopsided. We talk across conti¬ 
nents by wireless and ride in autos and airships, yet 
we are still trying to regulate our social life by the laws 
of Moses. 

Thomas. But if men and women were free to separ¬ 
ate- at will—! 

Mead. Then they’d separate decently and kindly, 
without all the lying and scandal of divorce which now 
keep many together thru years of wrangling and deceit. 
When the ban of social ostracism is removed from the 
free couple the element of natural selection will assert 
itself and there will be fewer separations than now. 

Kane. You’re a little previous, Allen—about 500 
years—that’s all. 

Thomas. I cannot endorse your unorthodox views. 
The church and state alike rest upon it. Without mar¬ 
riage the home would be insecure, and the foundation 
of the Republic is the home—the sanctity of the home, 
I may say. 

Kane. There you are, Allen—the sanctity of the 
home and the foundations of the republic. What are 
you going to do about them? 

Mead. My guess ;s that sanctified homes are pretty 
scarce in your neighborhood, Martin. 

Kane. Don’t flatter me to my face, Allen. 

Mead. The home is passing as an institution. The in 
dividual cookstove is going out. Apartment houses, res 
taurants, hotels, tenements, cafeterias, are destroying 
the old home life. It’s a big step toward democracy. 

Thomas. The abolition of the home a step toward 
democracy! Do you think so? 



16 


The Price of Money 

Mead. Caste is the enemy of democracy, and caste 
is rooted in the exclusiveness of the home life and circle. 
With the home will go caste—if we ever do cease our 
worship of wealth and brass buttons. 

Kane. In the year 3000, Allen. 

Mead. I’m only looking at the trend of things. 

Kane. You’re looking too far ahead — and needing 
the money, which is nearby. 

Thomas. Yet in the suburbs are miles of small 
homes, the cottages of our working classes. 

Mead {drily ). Mr. Thomas is an authority on sub¬ 
urban mortgages, Martin. 

Kane. Indeed; how reassuring. 

Thomas. I have some rather good investments in 
that line. 

Mead. About 90 per cent of the suburban property 
is mortgaged. I handle a good deal of that business. 

Thomas. Quite true, and you are thus in a position 
to corroborate my statement that we have still a large 
population of home living and home loving people. 

Kane. There he has you, Allen. So many mortgages, 
so many homes. 

Mead. O, hell! Martin—a mortgage isn’t a home. 

Kane. Well, don’t swear about it. Keep sunny if you 
want the money. If one mortage won’t make a happy 
home several will—and all bearing—what is the rate? 

Thomas. Ah, the rate is not so good. As you say, 
one must have a good many mortgages— 

Kane. Well, at that, the proper number of mort¬ 
gages will produce a happy home. 

Mead. You’re a fiend, Martin. 

Kane. Absolutely, Allen. Now, I’ll warrant that 
our friend here, Mr. Thomas—if he will pardon the 
personal application of my theory—is the head of a 
very comfortable and happy home.. 

Thomas. A very modest home, sir, which I trust 
you will honor with a visit during your stay in our city. 

Kane. I shall be delighted. But now that we have 
settled the home question what are you going to do 
about the foundations of the republic, Allen? 

Mead. O, I think I’ll let you and Carnegie and 
Rockefeller attend to them. I’m busy. 

Kane, That’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard 
you say. Only you must let me out. I’m still after the 
money. Carnegie and Rockefeller have got theirs. 

Thomas. You speak wisely, Mr. Kane. It is a de¬ 
plorable tendency of our times that young men who 
have still their own way to make in the world should 
meddle with these questions of public policy. 

Kane {winking at Mead). I rather prided myself 
that a substantial and practical citizen like you, Mr. 
Thomas, would take that view. 


Act One 17 

Thomas. Yes, there is too much intermeddling now. 
It was not so when I was a young man. 

Kane. It is very sad. Now when I was your age, 
Allen, I had learned the entire business of getting 
franchises through the council and legislature. 

Thomas. Ah, it requires much tact sometimes. 
That D street franchise— 

Kane ( looking and acting all that he does not say) 
Tact, yes. Tact is a good word for it. ( Counting on 
his fingers ): G—r—a— (f and t he slurs over rapidly, 
then): T—a—c—t. Why it’s shorter, too. O, tact is 
the right word .... But say, Allen, you’re not going 
to let the foundations go so easily, are you? 

Mead ( wearily ). O, they’re going fast enough. One 
can hear them groaning and crumbling beneath the 
superstructure we’re piling on them. 

Thomas. I trust you are wrong in that, Mr. Mead. 

Grace gnswers call of Telephone. 

Mead. I think we need new foundations, and not 
of the charity kind. 

Grace (at ’phone). It’s for you, Mr. Mead. 

Mead (rising). Pardon me. (Goes to telephone) 
Yes, sometime this afternoon. Say, Joe—wait a minute. 
You remember Martin Kane? Yes, I’ll have him talk 
to you. (Kane has heard and comes forward) Here, 
Martin, talk to Joe Allison (handing receiver to Kane 
and starting hack toward desk ). 

Thomas (has come toward center and is staring at 
Grace, who is diligently working, her back toward the 
room and its occupants. Thomas halts Mead to say) 
A very intelligent young woman- 

Mead (shortly). Yes. 

Thomas. I don’t recall seeing her here before. 

Mead (repressing his annoyance). She has been here 
about a month. 

Thomas. I remember you had an elderly woman 
(with an insinuating glance which Mead pretends not 
to see) Does she live at home with her people? 

Mead (drily). I believe so. Pardon me (Passes to 
his desk and becomes absorbed in his letters, leaving 
Thomas standing at the left lower end of the table, his 
gaze directed toward Grace who is thumping the type¬ 
writer vigorously ). 

Kane (seated at right of table talking in phone ). I 
don’t know how long I’ll stay— 

The door opens softly and a light step is heard only 
by the two men as 

Marian Wilson enters 

Her quick glance takes in the visible occupants of the 
room and for the fraction of a second she hesitates— 
long enough to view her in perspective and fix a por- 
traitwhich if taken at shorter range might be less ideal. 



18 


The Price of Money 

At this distance she is the pink and perfection of mod¬ 
ern American femininity. In stature neither tall nor 
short, in grace of curve and carriage her form is natu¬ 
rally such as the straight-front corset was meant to 
produce. Her oval face is surrounded by masses of au¬ 
burn hair: under a high forhead are eyes not too large, 
a finely chiseled nose high at base, and a mouth that 
loses no charm for its firmness, nor for a trace of a line 
at the corners—a distinctive, appealing, intelligent face. 
Her head she carries as tho there were a crown on it, 
and “crowns topple when heads wobble,” saitli the poet. 

Of course, there is no crown on Marian Wilson’s head, 
but only a hideous millinery affair, which is not in the 
extreme mode, however, but chosen with such taste 
—as is all her apparel—that its modernity is insufficient¬ 
ly shocking to mar the portrait of the fascinating wo¬ 
man now hesitating on the threshold, and staring for 
the barest instant, at the two men who more than re¬ 
turn her stare. 

Kane ( rising—aside ). The woman of Tony’s ! ! 

Thomas (aside ). She here ! 

Marian (flashing a look half appeal, half defiance, ad¬ 
vancing ). Grace, dear— 

Grace (turns, surprised, rises). Mother! I’m so glad 
you looked in. 

Kane (aside ). Her mother ! 

Thomas (aside ). Her daughter !! 

Marian (to Grace). I had just a moment to spare, in 
shopping. ( The two women are together near the type¬ 
writer as the curtain falls. ) 

END OF ACT ONE 


ACT TWO 

Scene: The same. Practically no time has elapsed. 
Kane has left the telephone and crossed to Thomas 
with whom he is exchanging a word, presumably about 
the visitor, While Mead lias left his desk, crossed to 
Grace and her mother and with the latter is shaking 
hands as the curtain rises. 

Mead. It was good of you to call, Mrs. Wilson. I 
had been hoping to meet you. 

Marian (has looked him over covertly, hut searching- 
ly). It is nice of you to say so. I had an errand for 
Grace (glancing at Kane and Thomas ) but I fear I 
interrupted you at a busy time. 

Mead (recalling their presence, introduces them ). 
This is Mr. Thomas—Mrs. Wilson. Mr. Thomas is one 
of our old residents. 

Marian (nods affably). How do you do, Mr. Thomas. 

Thomas (awkwardly mumbles ). Madam- 




Act Two 19 

Mead. And Mr. Kane, Mrs. Wilson—the wickedest 
man I know—from New York. 

Marian ( offers him the tips of her fingers ). Mr. 
Kane— ( looks at him fearlessly ) 

Kane. I am clellighted, Mrs. Wilson. Of course, you 
don’t believe anything a friend says about one. 

Mead ( starts to place a chair, in which he is fore¬ 
stalled by Kane ). Won’t you be seated, please. 

Marian {accepts the chair, smiling impartially to 
both). Thank you. {Mead turns to Thomas for an 
instant and then goes to Grace ). Business friends are not 
usually so candid, are they? 

Kane. O, we are more than business friends. I had 
charge of his education for a number of years. 

Marian. Indeed. He doesn’t look so bad. Perhaps 
he was not an apt pupil in your school. 

Mead is talking to Grace at the typewriter. 

Thomas stands to right front covertly watching them. 

Kane {seated at the opposite side of the table; looks 
across at Marian; their eyes meet under standingly). 
He has been from under my care for three years now. 
He’s left my school and turned intellectual. 

Marian. That is fortunate. 

Kane. Most unfortunate, I should say. {Glances 
toward couple ) He will need the money. 

Marian. Sometimes I think money isn’t the only 
thing in the world. 

Kane. I have just been trying to convince him that 
money is first. 

Marian. Did you succeed? 

Kane. He is stubborn on that point. 

Marian. I am glad of that. 

Kane. So am I, but I wouldn’t want him to know it. 

Warian. Why seek to convince him of what you 
know to be false? 

Kane. I don’t know it to be false. It’s true enough. 

Marian {looking anxiously at Thomas), I have 
thought so. 

Kane {following her glance ). Mr. Thomas has money. 

Marian {with repugnance). Nothing but money. 

Kane. You know him? 

Marian. Unfortunately. 

Kane {deliberately). If you should need a friend, 
Mrs. Wilson {indicating Thomas as the enemy) I’d be 
glad if I could help you. {Telephone rings; he answers 
it) Mr. Mead is right here. 

Mead {comes to 'phone). Yes, he’s here. Hold the 
wire. It’s for you, Mr. Thomas. 

Thomas {at ’phone). Yes, 1 can come over now. 
I’ll look in again before noon, Mr. Mead. We ought to 
conclude that matter of the option. {Bows awkwardly 
and departs) 


20 The Price of Money 

Mead {seeing him to the door ). By all means. I ’ll 
expect you. 

Marian {rising ). I feel that I am detaining you 
business men. 

Mead. By no means. Don’t go yet. 

Kane {rising ). Not at all. My only business at pres¬ 
ent is to keep Mr. Mead from dreaming too much. 

Mead. Be seated, please, and let Mr. Kane tell you 
what awful creatures women are. I’ll get into another 
argument with him if you go. He’s a visitor, so I can’t 
turn him out. If you’ll only listen to him while 1 get 

off some letters-. He thinks he knows all about 

women. 

Marian {sitting ). How interesting. Am I too old to 
learn? 

Kane {sitting ). Alas ! I am learning man’s ingrati¬ 
tude now, Mrs. Wilson. He scorns the counsel that 
would save him. 

Mead {laughing as he goes to Grace ). His faith is 
too strong for me. 

Marian. What is the chief article of your faith, 
Mr. Kane? 

Kane. Money. 

Marir/n. A very popular doctrine. 

Kane. Yes: and without the disadvantage of heresy. 

Marian. There is an occasional heretic, I hope. 

Kane. Allen has the symptoms. But we who live 
the true faith are not bothered to torture the heretics. 

Marian. Their heresy is their torture? 

Kane. Presisely. Thumbscrew and rack they apply 
themselves and find hell quicker than the faithful 
could send them there. 

Marian. Their hell is a deep one. I shrank from 
it. I have not been a heretic. But—and yet— 

Kane. Pardon me, Mrs. Wilson, there are no buts 
and yets in the true gospel. Money precedes all. 

Marian {slowly ). I have thought so—and paid— 

Kane. The world’s price to you for money. I ad¬ 
mire you more than I can express. 

Marian. Sometimes I doubt. 

Kane. Doubt will bring wrinkles. Don’t do it. 

Marian. You are thoroly wicked, as your friend says, 
aren’t you? 

Kane. I try to be. 

Marian. You have the courage of your-life. 

Kane. Haven’t you? 

Marian. I have had. 

Kane. You have no regrets? 

Marian {revealing a shade of the hardness that has 
crept into her naturally musical voice ). None whatever. 
I chose my life deliberately. It’s need was money. 

Kane. And you bought your money in the world’s 


Act Two 21 

market, giving a fairer equivalent for it than I give for 
mine. 

Marian. I am surprised to hear such views £rom a 
man. 

Kane. You’d be more surprised to hear them from 
a woman, wouldn’t you? 

Marian. I have heard .them from women—not often. 

Kane (a bit disconserted ). H’m—is that so?. 

But, pardon me, Mrs. Wilson, you made one mistake. 

Marian. Even that is possible. 

Kane. You should have sold yourself as an exclusive 
privilege to one rich man—or to a syndicate of two or 
three. 

Marian. That is the more usual way, and has certain 
advantages which I underestimated when younger. 

Kane. It has all the advantages that hypocrisy 
affords. 

Marian. But the idea was more repellant to me than 
the one I chose. 

Kane. You seem to have been obsessed by an abnor¬ 
mal aversion to chattel ownership, Mrs. Wilson—yet 
you married? 

Marian. That was a touch of romance to which I 
succombed—an inherited emotional taint, probably. 

Kane. And you thought marriage essential to 
romance? 

Marian. No; to motherhood. 

Kane. Do you still think so? 

Marian. Marriage is essential to nothing — but my 
business. 

Kane. No; you leave out a number of other callings. 
There’s the divorce court and its attaches, detectives 
who secure the evidence, stenographers who transcribe 
it, lawyers, prison keepers who guard bigamists—. 
You see, there’s quite a large class of worthy people 
interested in marriage. 

Marian. You can see far. 

Kane. I can see that you are hopeless, Mrs. Wilson. 
You never will be rich. 

Marian. I never craved that. I earn enough. 

Kane. And you earn it honestly. 

Marian. I earn it as I can—as the world dictates. 

Kane. And you can’t re-make the world, as Allen 
fancies he can? 

Marian. Does he? 

Kane. Yes—he is thirty. 

Marian. I knew better at twenty. 

Kane. Allen never will know better. It’s constitu¬ 
tional, like a tendency to dyspepsia. 

Marian. But we’re apt to change as we grow older? 
.I used to think we had to live. 

Kane. You can’t change that? 




22 


The Price of Money 

Marian. It's the only thing we can change. 

Kane. You don’t mean—? 

Marian.-that life may not be necessary-or 

preferrable, at the price—yes. When I was young I 
thought life was first. 

Kane. And now—? 

Marian. I see the error of that view. 

Kane. It’s a very common error. 

Marian. So common I wish I could have been 
spared it. 

Kane. You are an uncommon woman. 

Marian. No, your compliment is not justified. Life 
seemed important to me—and to live without money 
was as impossible as to work for less than the price of 
my shoes and gloves. I suppose it was youth that 
blinded me to the only regal and uncommon choice. 
I have not the same blindness now. 

Kane. You are not serious, Mrs. Wilson? 

Marian. Quite. I lack what you call a sense of hu¬ 
mor, I suppose. 

Kane. But your daughter? 

Marian ( with a shade of anxiety ). If I could see 
her safe first .... and then securely hide it. (She 
looks silently at the couple, who are more engrossed in 
each other than in their pretended work.) 

Kane rises abstractedly, seemingly intent upon some 
object at the other side of the room. 

Marian (turning, sees his back, thinks he is bored, is 
chagrined -at his impoliteness, but with an effort says 
lightly): Have you been to the new roof garden? 

Kane (turns uickly). Pardon me. I was thinking. 

Marian. O, it is much too warm to think. 

Kane (resuming his seat and speaking hurriedly and 
positively ). I am a man of some means, Mrs. Wilson. 
I admire you immensely. I would like to help you re¬ 
solve that doubt between life and death. (Then lightly ) 
It will affect the liver and spoil your complexion. 

Marian. I can buy a new one. 

Kane. Not like that. Or—well, let it go that you 
can. I needn’t tell you what money can’t buy. 

Marian. It buys much. 

Kane. Everything .... Well—I wish you would 
buy your new complexion—when you need it . . . . 
with my money. Is that clear? 

Marian (with some dignity, but calmly ). The words 
are clear, but the meaning I don’t quite catch. What 
is the price of you money, Mr. Kane? 

Kane. Your regard— 

Marian. I don’t understand you. 

Kane. Of course-you think I’m talking business. 

I am not. 

Marian. You are talking of money- 






Act Two 


23 

Kane. But in a new sense—new to me, at any rate, 
and probably to you. Listen, please. I have more 
money than enough—and get it easily— 

Marian. But your financial standing, Mr. Kane, 
is not— 

Kane. Will you hear me out?-just a moment. 

1 have nothing to do with my money but spend it as I 
please. I want to spend some now—to please myself. 
Will you accept it? 

MARIAN (formally). What is the'amount? 

Kane. All that you may require to resolve that 
doubt. There is no limit. 

Marian (icily ). The exclusive privilege, I presume? 

Kane (emphatically ). No! I’m not asking you to buy 
my money. 

Marian (rising ). What do you ask for it ? 

Kane (rising ). Nothing. 

Marian (regarding him dubiously ). Nothing? 

Kane. Not even your regard. I’d win that in a de- 
center way-if I can. 

Marian (there is a suspicion of moisture in her eyes. 
Impulsively she puts out her hands—hurriedly withdraws 
and turns away. There is a slight pause. When she faces 
him again there is coldness in her glance and voice.). I 
don’t understand you, Mr. Kane. Money is for barter 
and sale. I don’t understand you. 

Thomas re-enters 

Kane (turning away). I don’t understand myself. 

Mead (going to Thomas ). I know Mrs. Wilson has an 
errand with her daughter. She’ll excuse us, I’m sure. 

Marian. Please don’t consider me at all, or I shall 
know I’m intruding and run away. 

Mead. Don’t go. Stay and visit with Grace. She’s 
not busy. 

Marian (going to Grace). Thank you. 

Mead (as he and Thomas and Kane retreat behind the 
screen) I expect to close the deal at once, Mr. Thomas. 
My party is from out of town and wants to get away. 

Thomas ( ooking at his watch). I desire to go slowly 
and fairly in this matter, Mr. Mead. 

Mead. There isn’t any question of your fairness, Mr. 
Thomas. Of course you’ll be fair. 

Thomas. Fair to all concerned alike—that’s my 
maxim. 

Kane. Business maxims are handy. I always keep a 
stock for emergencies. 

Thomas. Ahem! The franchise committee of the 
council has the D street road in hand now. They ought 
to be through in a few minutes. They will call me up 
here. We had better wait. 

Mead. Of course we can wait, but I don’t see how 
the council’s action can affect my client—or your word. 




24 The Price of Money 

Kane. This is not your clairvoyant day, 1 notice, 
Allen. 

Mead. Your three hundred per cent increase is pretty 
good, isn’t it? 

Kane. O, yes, this is a good enough republic for 
Mr. Thomas and me. We neither toil nor spin— 

Thomas (glad to change the subject). Indeed, my 
friends—I feel that I can call you both by that appel¬ 
lation— (Kane bows ) Is not ours the freest and grandest 
nation on earth? We have no titles here, or privileged 
classes. We judge men by worth. 

Kane. Yes, by what they’re worth. Think of that. 

Mead. When I do I feel I’d as leave be an Englishman 
and tip my hat to a title as to money. It seems more 
human. 

Thomas. You would not advocate a titled aristoc¬ 
racy in this country? ( Reflectively) Tlio it might have 
advantages. 

Mead. No; nor the continued rule of the untitled 
plutocracy. Money is the most cruel master that men 
ever had. 

Kane. There’s no master without slaves 

Mead. True; our veneration and fear of money is its 
real power. 

Kane. What is money, Allen—so long as we’re pry¬ 
ing into the mysteries. 

Mead. Who knows? 

Kane. Wall street. 

Mead. Wall street least of all. Money is nothing— 
a phantom, a symbol. If all of it were cast in the sea 
tomorrow there’d be no less food and clothing in the 
world. Even when it’s gold money has no real human 
worth. 

Kane. O, I don’t know—What! Gold? 

Mead. Is all of it that was ever mined worth a single 
human life? 

Kane. Whose life? 

Mead. Ah, that’s a point I had overlooked. Well, 
we’ll say the other fellow’s life. 

Kane. You’re not talking to Mr. Thomas and me. 
The other fellow’s life would be rather well compensated 
to us, with quite a moderate amount of real gold. 

Mead. But to him—would gold pay him for his life? 

Kane. That question, you will readily perceive, my 
dear sir, should be addressed to him, and not to such 
entirely disinterested parties as Mr. Thomas and me. 

Mead. Very well; then, as to your own lives. How 
much gold would pay for them? 

Kane. That question, sir, I shall be compelled to 
characterize as impertinent, and move to have it 
stricken out as irrelevant to any contingency likely to 
arise in the affairs of such practical and eminently 


Act Two 25 

respectable persons as ourselves. I believe you concur 
with me, Mr. Thomas? 

Thomas ( ivho suspects a strain of humor in this, but 
can’t locate it.) Entirely, sir. Of course, we must take a 
broad view of these things. 

Mead {rather disgusted). O, yes; any but the human 
view. In this country any consideration has the right 
of way over life—if there’s money in it. 

Thomas. I regret to hear you speak so, Mr. Mead. 
Such ill-advised utterances stir up much unrest in 
this country. 

Kane. You are correct, sir. That’s what I tell the 
agitators in New York. What if one does hypnotize 
a million or two, so long as only those on the inside 
know about it? Let’s forget it and reach for another. 
But, no, your muck raker comes along and tells the 
whole nation—and there’s a ten-day’s noise about it 
till an earthquake or a divorce scandal overshadows 
it. Everything would go along smoothly, Allen, if 
if weren’t for you agitators. 

Mead. But there’ll have to be a reckoning some day 
between the robbers and the people. 

Kane {aside to Mead). It’ll come quicker the harder 
they’re pinched. 

Mead. You in New York seem to think money is 
coined out of ether, or falls like manna from the sky. 

Kane. It’s manna to a number of us, sure—and 
we’re not asking questions or agitating to put the 
losers next. 

Mead. Some day it will dawn on the people that 
your stock-jobbing dollars are coined out of human 
blood. 

Kane. And then a war with China till they go to 
sleep again. But say, Allen, that’s good. Why don’t 
you make a speech of it and run for the legislature. 
You’d soon reach congress with that line of goods— 
‘‘coined out of blood”—Fine, isn’t it, Mr. Thomas? 

Thomas. Very good rhetoric, indeed. Such speeches 
are in great vogue now. I think I could promise him 
the assembly nomination in the tenth district. On 
the political rostrum such sentiments are quite in place. 

Kane. There’s your chance, Allen. I’ll stand for the 
expense. 

Mead. No, thank you. I believe I’ll wait awhile and 
run for president. Every boy born in this country can 
be president, you know. 

Thomas. Any boy, Mr. Mead; not every boy. 
There’s quite a difference. 

Kane. O, a letter or two in a word doesn’t matter in 
politics, Mr. Thomas. This is the land of the free and 
the easy. 

Thomas. It’s a grand nation, sir. 



26 


The Price of Money 

Kane. The very sublimest in the cosmos. Think of 
me going to New York with only $16,000 three years 
ago and getting in on the subway steals ( hurriedly) 
I mean deals—I said sdeals— 

Mead. Yes, we heard you say deals. 

Kane. You understood me accurately, Mr. Thomas? 
I spoke of the subway s—deals? 

Thomas. I so understood you, Mr. Kane. 

Mead. You tried to say deals, Martin. Go head. 

Kane ( serverely ). 1 like to be very explicit in these 
matters. Continuing then: I had acquaintances who 
opened the window- 

Mead. What was the matter with the door? 

Kane. Tamany keeps it locked. Don’t interrupt me 
with foolish questions, Allen. As I was saying, I got in 
on the ground floor of these subway s-deals and turned 
$80,000 in less than three months—just as'easy. O, it’s 
a great republic. 

Thomas. Eighty thousand—that’s a very good sum. 
Ah, you see, there is much to reward thrift and indus¬ 
try in this country. 

Kane. Yes; I worked hard, interviewing personally 
and persuasively I may say every official who could be 
reached. Industry and thrift, these are my constant 
watchwords. Why sir, do you know that when I am 
home, I arise every morning before breakfast. 

(Telephone rings) 

Thomas ( rising ). Success is always achieved by ex¬ 
emplary habits and strict attention to business. Our 
young people are too thoughtless. 

Mead ( rising , suppressing laughter ). Martin, you’re 
more than the limit. 

Grace (at ’phone ). It’s for Mr. Thomas. 

Thomas goes to phone. 

Kane.It’s shocking, the thoughtlessness of our young 
people—especially of our young politicians. 

Mead searches his desk for something he doesn’t find. 

Marian and Grace are together at the typewriter. 

Thomas (whispering in ’phone). Gallagher voted 
with us, did he. The mayor will sign. That’s all right. 
Well, it cost us enough. Goodby. (Hangs up receiver 
and turns to Mead ) You say you have a letter of mine 
authorizing you to sell? 

Mead (meeting Thomas half way ). Certainly—you re¬ 
member. We talked about it. 

Thomas (cautiously). I am not sure. I’d like to see 
the letter. 

Mead. It’s probably downstairs in my safety de¬ 
posit box. I’ll go after it. (They walk toward door) 
It won’t take but a few minutes. (Goes) 

Thomas turns and walks thoughtfully to table, where 
he halts and looks toward the women. 




Act Two 27 

Grace shrugs her shoulders and 'pretends to resume her 
work, unwilling to converse in his presence. 

Marian rises and advances a step toward him, ques- 
tioningly and defiantly. 

Thomas takes out his pocket book, extracts a number 
of bills and with an unmistakable look from mother to 
daughter, lays them on the table. 

Marian noiselessly, impulsively, with fear and horror 
on her face, sweeps the money on the floor. 

Kane sauntering to the edge of the screen intending 
to pass out into the room, sees this, hesitates. 

Thomas (stoops to gather up the bills, rises red in the 
face and blustering ). I am used to getting what I want. * 

Marian ( imploringly, apprehensive lest Grace's atten¬ 
tion be attracted). Not here—not now—! 

Thomas (sees his advantage, raises his voice). The 
price— O! O! Confound you! Damn! 

These explosives are caused by the impact of Kane’s 
heel on the Thomas corn, and were preceded by the noise 
of Kane stumbling over a chair. The latter’s entangle¬ 
ment precipitated him awkardly, but opportunely. Re¬ 
gaining his balance, he profusely apologizes. 

Kane. A thousand pardons, Mr. Thomas. I heard 
you speak of the price—of lots, wasn’t it? and' I was 
interested. But I didn’t mean to fall all over myself 
like this. I’m too impetuous in my business instincts. 
Can you pardon me? 

Thomas (seated to left of table, nursing his foot). O! 
ah! You are clumsy, sir! O! O! 

Kane (sympathetically ). Yes, I am—very clumsy. 
It’s my business instincts. You spoke so loud about the 
price of something (a glance at Marian, who returns it 
warmly) and I hastened to get in on the ground floor. 
My business impetuousity will hurt someone yet, if I’m 
not careful. Is it very painful? 

Thomas. Whew! W hew! O- 

Mead re-enters 

Mead (paper in hand). I wasn’t gone long? 

Marian {meets him near door). I have enjoyed my 
visit so much, Mr. Mead, tho I’m sure I intruded too 
long. You will pardon me, won’t you? 

Mead. If you 11 promise to do it again—whenever 
you’re down this way? 

Marian. It is kind of you. I hope we will see you 
at our home soon. You will always be welcome. 

Mead. Thank you. I’ll avail myself of the privi¬ 
lege, you may be sure. Good Morning. (Passes down 
to Thomas and hands him paper) 

Kane {intercepting her at door). And I shall call—? 

Marian. My friends never call at my home. 

Kane {holding door open for her). Then I’m not your 
friend, but Allen’s. On that basis—? 




28 The Price of Money 

Marian ( passing out). No—you had better not. 

Kane. But I shall. ( Closes door and comes down and 
seats himself at table opposite Thomas, who is studying 
the paper .) 

Mead ( standing beside Tho7nas ). You see—the price 
is named. You authorize me to sell for $56,000. It is 
scarcely a month old. 

Thomas (dubiously ). H’m’m- 

Mead {confidently ). Of course, you’re bound to be 
fair, as you say, and there’s a good unearned increment 
in it for you. 

Kane {nonchalantly). It’s easy money in real estate, 
if you know which way the car line is coming. 

Thomas {looks up guiltily). Well—ahem— 

Mead. O, it’s safe to buy land anywhere in a grow¬ 
ing city, and hold it till the pressure of population gives 
it more value. 

Thomas. That’s business. 

Kane. And you wouldn’t interfere with the sacred 
institution of business? 

Mead. I’d replace it with decency and sympathy 
—if I could. 

Kane holds up his hands in mock horror. 

Thomas offers a gesture of impatience. 

Mead. But don’t be alarmed gentlemen. I can’t. 

Kane. Indeed you can’t. I think we can safely pass 
that point, Mr. Thomas. He can’t. 

Mead. And the next best thing would be to get the 
people to understand the degradation involved in the 
whole scheme of buying and selling land. 

Thomas. Degradation !! 

Mead. It’s on par with buying and selling men. 

Thomas. I never heard such sentiments. 

Mead. Land and men are inseparable. The slavery 
involved in owning land isn’t as personally apparent 
as in owning men, but it’s even more effective. Trading 
in land must go as trading in men went. Morally there 
is no difference and actually the slaves were better fed 
and housed than the landless are now. 

Kane. I have no land, Allen. 

Mead. But your stocks and currency can be con¬ 
verted into land and are mortagages on human labor 
applied to the land. Like the unearned increment 
and all values, the presence of the people makes it, 
their labor pays it, and you reap it. 

Thomas. You say the people create values? 

Mead. Certainly. If the landless people moved out 
of this town tomorrow your land wouldn’t be worth 
a cent a front foot. There’s no value without people 
and there’s no wealth that doesn’t come from the land. 

Kane. I got a million dollars last week for writing a 
beautiful poem. 



Act Two 


29 

Mead. Ten dollars, you mean. But the dollars 
came from the land, and the poem, too—the paper it 
was written on, the pen or pencil, the soil under your 
feet while you wrote— 

Kane ( perversely). But—I wrote this poem on ship¬ 
board. 

Mead. I don’t care if you wrote it in an airship— 
except that I’m pained at your mendacity. The ship 
came from the land. There’s just one thing that man 
can neither live nor die without, and that’s land. 

Kane ( rising ). The moral of which is— 

Mead. There’s nothing moral about it. It’s the 
beginning and end of all immorality. 

Kane. Allen, the class in political economy will 
now adjourn, and I’ll pronounce the moral. We must 
have a moral. How could Mr. Thomas and I do busi¬ 
ness without morals? And the moral is, Don’t be land¬ 
less. Be a landlord and let the other fellow sweat. Is 
n’t that right, Mr. Thomas? 

Mead. Martin, you’re—civilized! 

Kane. Almost, Allen. 

Thomas. Yes, every maii should own a piece of land. 

Mead. That w’ould be hard on some people. There’d 
be no landlords then. 

Thomas. I mean it should be the effort of every man 
to own a piece of land, his life’s ambition, so to speak. 

Mead. Which in the case of ninety per cent, must 
be doomed to failure. 

Thomas. Of course there will always be a large class 
of unthrifty people. 

Mead. To live on our land and pay us toll for the 
privilege of living at all. 

Thomas {tartly). I don’t care to listen to these ex¬ 
treme views. Every man can own land in this country 
if he will save. 

Mead (mildly). Any man, Mr. Thomas—not every 
man. It’s as impossible now for ninety per cent of the 
people to own land as it is for all but one of the ninety 
millions to be president. 

Kane. Well, there’s the sea. Get a house boat if 
you’re landless. Anyway, I’ve called off this economic 
discussion. It’s getting on Mr. Thomas’ nerves, and I 
fancy he will need his entire nerve capacity to adjust 
this option matter. 

Mead. O, I think we’ll settle that quickly, now that 
Mr. Thomas has read his own letter authorizing me 
to sell. ( Taking letter from Thomas’ hand) Excuse me. 
(Reading) It’s all clear enough here. Mr. Thomas is 
bound to do what is right. 

Thomas (dubiously). I must be fair to myself first 
before I can be fair to anyone else. My interests are at 
stake. 




30 


The Price of Money 

Mead ( surprised). But the letter is plain. Of course 
no one can lorce you to sell your property, but you 
can’t go back on your letter? 

Thomas. I can’t remember having written any such 
letter. 

Mead (more surprised). But here it is. You’ve seen 
it. That is your signature, isn’t it? 

Thomas. I wouldn’t care to commit myself to that 
now, Mr. Mead. 

Mead. What! Not admit your own handwriting? 

Thomas (< decisively ). The fact is, I can’t think of 
selling the property for that price now. It is worth 
more. I must consider my interests. 

Mead. You don’t mean to say you would deny a 
written agreement like this? 

Thomas (in mollifying tone ). But a man must be fair 
to his own interests, Mr. Mead. We must deal honor¬ 
ably to all concerned alike. I am a man of family and 
cannot regard my inclinations in a matter like this. 

Mead. And a written agreement counts for nothing? 

Thomas only shrugs his shoulders. 

Kane. What is there so sacred about a written 
agreement, Allen? It seems to be fetish to you. 

Mead (perplexed, losing his sense of humor in a situa¬ 
tion unpleasantly personal). Why the terms of a writ¬ 
ten agreement are irrevocably fixed. They’re not to be 
forgotten, altered, or broken. 

Kane. O, aren’t they? I wonder what you think the 
law is for? 

Mead. Why for just such cases as this—to hold men 
to their agreements. 

Kane. I’m losing faith in your sanity, Allen. How 
much are you worth? 

Mead (excitedly). What has that to do with it? Here 
is the proof in his own handwriting. 

Kane. It’s the whole question. How much money 
have you to back your proof ? 

Thomas. I trust Mr. Mead is not seriously thinking 
of carrying this trifling matter to court. 

Mead. That’s exactly my position. It’s not a trifling 
matter to me. I’ve spent a month and made several 
expensive trips to effect this sale. My word is at stake. 
I shall hold you to this aggreement. 

Thomas (deliberately). Mr. Mead, this has now be¬ 
come a business principle. I am always prepared to 
defend my principles, no matter what the cost. I hope 
I make my position clear to you. 

Kane (with considerable disgust for Thomas in his 
tone). Why it’s as clear as mud. Better drop it, Allen, 
Let’s go and have a drink. 

Mead (defiant ). Thomas has got to deal squarely in 
this. It’s a big matter to me. I have the proof. 



Act Three 


31 

Kane. What! You’re going to stand out against a 
principle! Was even life ever worth a puff of smoke 
against a principle? You know better. And this is a 
business principle. You’ll last about thirty seconds 
against a business principle. Come, it’s time to have 
a drink. 

Mead. No! This thing must be settled. My word’s 
at stake, without counting the money end of it. I shall 
sue on this agreement. 

Thomas. Don’t do anything so ill-advised. You un¬ 
derstand, don’t you, that I should not permit myself 
to be beaten in the courts? 

Mead. I understand that you shall be made to deal 
honestly, if there is any virtue in the law. 

Kane. Legal virtue is a matter of attorney’s fees, 
Allen—when not something more equivocal. I thought 
you knew that. 

Thomas (the bully coming to the surface ). You fool 
pauper, do you threaten me with the law! Suppose I 
show in court that you forged that letter to blackmail 
me into selling to your clique. What chance would 
you stand in court against me? 

Kane. That’s business. Do you think our courts are 
ornaments, Allen? 

Mead (in disgust). Hell, Martin! They’re not as 
rotten as that? 

Kane. They’re as rotten as men—and men are what 
money makes of them. 

Mead (in utter contempt, crumples the letter and throws 
it in Thomas’ face). Ugh! Your money sickens me! 
( Goes to his desk.) 

Thomas picks up letter and goes out. 

Grace crosses to Mead. 

Kane (sits with one leg over the table). You’ll have to 
recover from that sickness, my boy. 

The curtain falls on 

END OF ACT TWO 


ACT THREE 

Time: A month later; early evening. 

Scene: A quiet corner in the ladies’ parlor of Hotel 
Eureka, shut off by heavy curtains at back. A lounge 
right, a number of comfortable chairs, and a small ta¬ 
ble on which are flowers. As the curtain rises 

Thomas enters 

looking at his watch, paces floor. At center he halts; the 
curtains part, and 

Marian enters 

bows formally and comes right. 



32 The Price of Money 

Thomas {amicably). I think you did well to come, 
Mrs. Wilson. It will result in a better understanding 
between us—and may save you some annoyance. 

Marian (fencing). Yes, I trust there will be a better 
understanding.I received your message— 

Thomas. Let’s sit down ( sinks into easy chair to right 
of center facing lounge ). 

Marian (sitting hesitantly on edge of lounge). Your 
message didn’t indicate any special reason for this 
meeting—? 

Thomas (bluntly ). 1 met you before. 

Marian (evasivly ). At Mr. Mead’s office. 

Thomas. No, before that—at Tony’s. 

Marian (resignedly). Yes—a year ago. 

Thomas. I’m glad you remember. It will save time 
and words. 

Marian. I can’t forget. Lethean waters I do not find 
in my cup of life. 

Thomas. Things like that don’t appeal to me. 

Marian. Pardon me. 

Thomas. We won’t waste time on things that don’t 
touch the point at issue. 

Marian. May 1 ask you then to state the point? 

Thomas. I guess you know. 

Marian. I am waiting to hear. 

Thomas (studying the carpet). I’ve taken quite a 
fancy to your daughter. (Marian shudders) I’m not 
going to make talk about it. I’m willing to be fair and 
pay her and you liberally— 

Marian (very quietly ). 1 would rather see her dead. 

Thomas. O — that don’t bother me. Women always 
talk about dying when they can’t have their way. 
You might as well take a sensible view of it. I’ll treat 
her well. 

Marian (quietly). You partial knowledge of my life 
seems to give you the right to talk this way. But you 
don’t know me—nor the reason of my life. 

Thomas. Of course, women like you are out for the 
money. 

Marian (still with repression). I shall not attempt to 
dispute that point with you. 

Thomas ( sincerely). You can’t. It’s true. 

Marian ( earnestly , but quietly). Perhaps it is true 
—or was. But money didn’t lure me till L found that 
its lack would dwarf the life I cared most to cherish. 
The fear of poverty came to me in the prattle of a 
child. I saw its life denied decencies and advantages 
that only money could supply .... And I went out 
and demanded money of the world—and found what 
its price was—and paid it. 

(Thomas shrugs his shoulders impatiently.) 

My child had the same right as yours to be well housed 





Act Three 


33 

and clothed. My child should have schools and music 
and good food and pleasant surroundings—and these 
cost money .... 1 had but one way to get money. 

Thomas. You weren’t satisfied to live within your 
means. It’s this extravagance that does all the harm. 

Marian. Your wife does her shopping in her private 
car. I walk. 

Thomas ( argumentatively ). But she has the means. 

Marian. She sold herself to you for them. She was 
as poor a girl as I. We grew up in the same neighbor¬ 
hood and went to the same schools. 

Thomas ( definitely and finally ). I married her. 

Marian {wearily ). I have not envied her. 

Thomas ( whose time is valuable ). Well, well— 

Marian. My life has had a purpose. It has been full 
of sham, but to be a woman is to live a hypocrite. I 
have sold myself to men and kept my place among wo¬ 
men with the money their husbands paid me. {Bitterly ) 
Yes, I was out for the money—( fiercely ) so that my 
daughter should not know the world’s price to woman 
for bread and clothes! 

Thomas. Then your daughter don’t know about— 
your life? 

Marian. My life has been to save her from the 
knowledge that such a life need be. 

Thomas. Things like that run in families. You can’t 
expect anything different. She’ll need money herself. 

Marian. Her danger is past, I feel, and my death 
will save her from the knowledge of my life. 

Thomas. I suppose you’re counting on young Mead? 
( She is silent ) But he won’t be in shape to meet your 
plans. {Waits for her to speak: she is silent) 1 expect 
the grand jury will have to indict him. 

Marian. Impossible! What for? 

Thomas. Well, he’s been tampering with my papers. 

Marian {unable to repress her alarm ). It can’t be— 
You wouldn’t dare— 

Thomas. I know what I’m talking about. 

Marian. It’s monstrous—impossible! You can’t reach 
him. You wouldn’t persecute him? 

Thomas. He brought it on himself—threatened me 
with law. I wouldn’t count on him. He won’t be here. 

Marian {alarmed ). O, this is a nightmare that I shall 
shake off! The world can’t be all black! 

Thomas. The world’s just what it is, of course. 

Marian {searchingly ). But you are not all money? 
There is blood in your veins? You have a daughter— 

Thomas. We won’t bring her in this matter. 

Marian {anxiously). O, yes we shall! I will go on 
my knees to her and beg her to soften you! 

Thomas {stolidly ). My daughter ain’t accessible to 
your kind. 


34 The Price of Money 

Marian ( for the only time during the play losing con¬ 
trol of herself, pleading swiftly and passionately under 
stress of terror). O, God! My kind have hearts and 
souls! We are women—human beings! We writhe 
under torture as other women! We smile, we please 
you, we feel pain, and love our young! O, have you 
never known pain? Have you never felt the iron hand 
of life at your throat dragging you down and demand¬ 
ing the blood of your heart? Have you never shrunk 
in terror from fate? You must have suffered! The world 
can’t be all money to you! You won’t pit your wealth 
against the life I care more for than heaven or hell? 

Thomas has partly turned his hack, studies the carpet 
and shrugs his shoulders. 

Marian (kneels). See! See! I am humble! Who am 
I to stand upright before you? I kneel! I kneel! Is not 
that enough? A mother, on her knees to you—plead¬ 
ing for a daughter’s life! 

Thomas (rising). Pshaw! I didn’t think we’d have 
a scene. I thought you were too sensible for that. 

Marian (turning away, is on her knees at the lounge 
an instant, her face in her hands. She is thoroly alarmed. 
Quickly she suppresses her excitement and reverts im¬ 
pulsively to her more effective weapon. As she rises to 
face Thomas she still gasps and her hands twitch, hut 
she smiles and speaks softly ). I am so nervous. All 
women are nervous, aren’t they? This is quite a lengthy 
business conversation for me. I hope you will pardon 
my nerves. 

Thomas. O, it’s always that way with women, I sup 
pose. I hope your daughter hasn’t got nerves yet. 

Marian (shudders). No; Grace is very even tempered. 

Thomas. I rather thought so. That’s why I like her. 
I’m tired of these scenes with women. 

Marian. And since you have taken such an interest 
in her—and are—are so determined— 

Thomas. I’ll treat her right, and be liberal to both 
of you. You won’t find me hard. It’s all a matter of 
business with me. 

Marian. Yes, indeed; all life is a matter of business, 
isn’t it? 

Thomas. Why of course (as tho he said, “Certainly 
water is wet.” Life has not presented itself to him in 
any other phase.) 

Marian (hesitantly ). You probably have plans—? 

Thomas. Well, there’s a comfortably furnished flat in 
the north end that’s vacant now. She could live there— 
and you could visit— 

Marian. She will have to leave home, then? Her 
father will question. It will be difficult. 

Thomas. O, I guess you can fix that. Girl going to 
the country—or something. 



Act Three 


35 


Marian ( her face shows pain, but her voice is firm and 
she smiles). Yes; everything can be arranged .... I 
suppose you won’t press the case against Mr. Mead? 

I homas. What’s your interest in him? He ain’t going 
to be anything to the girl. 

Marian. O, no; but we’re all friends, and I thought 
you might— 

Thomas ( magnanimously ). I’ll tell you what I’ll do. 
I won’t stop the indictment, but if things go all right, 
and the girl is satisfied, and he keeps away from her, 
I’ll have the thing drag along. I’ll use my influence— 
maybe there’ll be no trial. 

Marian. I suppose that is all his friends can expect. 

Thomas ( snappishly ). It’s all they’ll get. 

Marian. We will be grateful for whatever forbearance 
... I presume we understand the situation, then? 

Thomas. I guess that’s about all. Don’t attempt to 
play me. You can’t. I can put the police on you in a 
minute. I’m not afraid to spend a few dollars to have 
things go as I want them. I needn’t tell you. 

Marian. You are a powerful man in this city. I shall 
not attempt to oppose you. 

Thomas. You seem to be taking a sensible view. I 
hope you mean it. I’m pretty busy—and don’t want 
to wrangle anyway. 

Marian. The interview is concluded, then—? 

Thomas. Why, I suppose that’s about all. You prob¬ 
ably want some money? 

Marian ( scarcely able to stand ). It’s always the most 
available thing. 

Thomas. When you’re buying it is. ( Hands bills) 
I won’t count the pennies. There’s more when you 
want it. {Mechanically she takes the money) I’ll have 
the key sent to you, or you can call at Ford’s for it. 

Marian. I will call. 

Thomas. Maybe that ; s better. I’ll expect her over 
there tomorrow evening, say? 

Marian. That is soon— The day after—? 

Thomas {looks at her sharply ). Well, the day after. 
But no later. 

Marian. No later. 

Thomas. Well, I’ll go. {He leaves abruptly) 

Marian sinks exhaustedly on the lounge. Presently 
she rises and tears the money into fragments which she 
scatters on the poor. This she does not in rage or hate, 
but ivith uncanny deliberation, her face contorted with 
pain, repugnance, and terror. When the bills are des¬ 
troyed she sinks on the lounge again, but presently 
recovers poise and goes out silently. 

The stage is deserted for a moment till 

Kane, Mead, Grace, and John Wilson enter 

Wilson is of medium size and medium in every other 


36 The Price of Money 

way. He is 45 or less, his face, voice, garb, thought, 
and life—average. He is one of the many drawn thru 
the world’s knot-hole and come out about alike. 
Civilization lias tamed him physically, mentally and 
morally. 

Kane. Now we can talk to our heart’s content. 

Grace (to Mead). I told father we’d find you here. 

Wilson. Yes, she did. I thought you’d be home, but 
Grace said we’d find you with Mr. Kane. 

Mead. That’s odd. I meant to stay home this even¬ 
ing, but Martin ’phoned for me to come down and let 
him beat me at billiards. He wanted an easy mark. 
Everybody else at the hotel here beats him. I’ve lost 
three games. I’m glad you came and saved me from 
the fourth. 

Kane. So am t He’s stupider with the cue than the 
bell boys and less truthful. They’ll tell you I’ve beaten 
everybody who plays here. 

Mead. They’ll tell you anything. They like his tips. 
What is it, an ice cream party at Shirley’s? 

Wilson (to Mead). I wanted to speak with you. 

Mead (to Grace ). Will you let Martin bore you a few 
minutes, please? (Comes front with Wilson ) 

Wilson. This is serious. I thought I’d tell you first. 

Mead. Serious, is it ? 

Wilson. They have me on the grand jury. 

Mead. H’m — that, is serious. But we all have to 
serve when the sheriff’s lightning strikes. 

Wilson. But this is about you. They’ll indict you. 

Mead. Me ! Indict me ! ! 

Wilson. We’re sworn not to tell — but in a case like 
this .... things don’t look right, anyway. 

Mead (lowering his voice). Go on — there must be 
some mistake. What charge? 

Wilson (whispering ). It’s forgery. 

Mead. Impossible! Absurd! (Laughs) What have I 
forged? 

Wilson. Well, they had writing experts. Some real 
estate letter. I didn’t catch the names. 

Mead (a light breaking). Was it about an option? 

Wilson. That’s it. They had four experts, and a lot 
of your handwriting. 

Mead (repressing himself). The d- 

Wilson. The district attorney seemed to think it was 
a sure case. Of course you never did anything like that. 

Mead. It’s perjured testimony, every word of it. 

Wilson. I knew it. but I wanted to hear you say so. 

Mead. Why, I can’t believe it! . . . Well, I’ll show 
up some rottenness in this town. Don’t worry about 
me, Mr. Wilson. 

Wilson. I suppose it will get in the papers. 

Mead. When it does I’ll have something to say. It 


Act Three 37 

was good of you to come and tell me. Maybe you’d 
better not alarm them at home. 

Wilson. Yes; 1 guess I’d better say nothing more. I 
just thought I’d warn you. 

Mead. I’m grateful for that. This puts me on my 
fighting mettle. ( Going to Grace) Shall we go for ice 
cream, now? 

Grace. No. We must get right back. Mother will be 
home and miss us. 

Wilson (to Mead ). I suppose we’d better not be seen 
together. 

Mead. Well, we’ll postpone the ice cream. ( Aside to 
Grace ) Am I to call tomorrow evening? 

Grace. I’ll tell you in the morning. 

Mead (as he and Kane hold the curtains for them to 
pass out ). We’ll see you to the car, anyway. 

They all pass out and the stage is deserted till a Porter 
with dustpan and brush passes thru. He sees the litter 
of the bills and stops to brush it up. Noticing its texture 
he begins to examine it and presently is engaged in 
piecing it together. 

Porter. Gee! that’s real money. (Looks around sus¬ 
piciously, and finds the Head Porter standing over him) 

Head Porter. Give it here. 

Porter. I found it. (But he hands it over, reluctantly ) 

Head Porter. Here’s a dollar — (handing coin). You 
got a pretty good job here? 

Porter. I ain’t kicking. 

Head Porter. It’ll last longer if you keep still. (Buts 
his fingers to his lips and goes ) 

Porter looks at coin grimly, sighs, and exits. 

Mead and Kane enter 

Mead. Well? 

Kane. I don’t like it. 

Mead. 1 won’t leave him a leg to stand on. 

Kane. Won’t you? .... How? 

Mead. O, as to details— 

Kane. It’s time to think of them. 

Mead. His testimony is perjured. 

Kane. What has that to do with it? 

Mead. Everything. 

Kane. Nothing. 

Mead. I’ll show him to be a suborner of perjured tes¬ 
timony to carry out a private grudge. 

Kane. It’s more than that. Thomas doesn’t spend 
money for spite. But how will you prove perjury? 

Mead. How? 

Kane. Yes, how? 

Mead. Why, by showing the truth. 

Kane. How? 

Mead. O, don’t be so serious, Martin. I’m not guilty, 
am 1? 



38 


The Price of Money 

Kane. You talk like a lawyer trying to , et a client. 
Your innocence is not the question. You might as well 
be guilty. 

Mead. What! my innocence-? 

Kane. Now be calm a minute. Four experts have tes 
tiffed— 

Mead. To a lie! 

Kane. You know it’s a lie, and I know it, but how 
about the jury? 

Mead. Til get experts to tell the truth, and lawyers 
to trap his perjured experts. 

Kane. He’s already retained the best experts in this 
part of the country—and the highest priced lawyers. 
You might send to New York— 

Mead^ I will, if necessary. 

Kane. How much could you clean up at a forced sale? 

Mead. What’s the difference? You know,- 

Kane. Say about six thousand? 

Mead. About. 

Kane. How far would that go among lawyers and 
experts against those of a millionaire? 

Mead. Far enough to clear me and show up Thomas 
in this town. 

Kane. And leave you broke at the end of a two or 
three year’s struggle. 

Mead. Even so—but that’s an extreme view. 

Kane. It’s the best outcome you could hope for; it’s 
a dream that you can’t realize. 

Mead. Come now, Martin; you’re moody tonight. 
Nothing looks good to you. 

Kane. I see your finish in this town, Allen. Why not 
take Grace and go off somewhere? The world is big. 

Mead. You don’t know me, Martin, or you wouldn’t 
talk like that. I hope you don’t mean it. 

Kane. I do mean it. There’s more in this than— 

Mead (waits for him to finish )—than what? What do 
you mean? 

Kane. O, your case is enough. I see you with a few 
thousand dollars trying to battle with a millionaire. I 
don’t count Thomas himself. He’s a bone-head that 
you could outwit easily, in a game of skill. 

Mead. Well, here’s the game. 

Kane. No; it isn’t a game. It’s the shell and pea 
swindle raised to the nth power. It’s a fool man with 
pick and shovel trying to level Pike’s Peak. It’s money, 
Allen; pennies against thousands! Nothing, nothing 
counts in a case like this—or in the whole world— 
but money. 

Mead. O, I think you exaggerate the importance of 
money. 

Kane. I couldn’t. It can’t be exaggerated. 

Mead. Decency and honesty count for something. 




Act Three 


39 

Kane. In the school books, yes. In private life, 
sometimes. When they come in contact with money 
pooh! they don’t exist. Allen, you’re down and out 
in this town. That indictment kills you. You’re an 
old fashioned business man whose best asset is his repu¬ 
tation. 

Mead. There are others. 

Kane. Very few. If you hadn’t run against this snag 
you might have accumulated fifty thousand or so by 
the time you were sixty—if your health kept good and 
the panics didn’t catch you. 

Mead. Well, fifty thousand would do. Life doesn’t 
present itself to me entirely in terms of money. 

Kane (slowly ). Perhaps that’s true of you. It hasn’t 
been of me. 

Mead, But it once was, Martin. That’s what brought 
us together as boys. After you sister died and you went 
to Pittsburg— 

Kane. Do you know why she died? 

Mead. You never told me. 

Kane. Because I didn’t have money enough to save 

her. 

Mead. But your relatives had money—? 

Kane. They were afraid— 

Mead. Afraid! Of what? 

Kane. Afraid of poverty. I hadn’t learned the game. 

Mead (after a pause ). I often wondered — I suppose 
there was a woman in those Pittsburg years— 

Kane. One who needed the money ... I got it for 
her .... and got away from her. 

Mead (goes to Kane ). Forget it, old fellow. I didn’t 
mean to probe. 1 just wanted to be sure you were still 
human. 

Kane. We’re all human, I suppose—except Thomas, 
and lie’s a condition. His mind is fogged with the 
money lust. He was born that way. He’s our Franken¬ 
stein—the warning that men won’t heed. 

Mead. I think the money madness is wearing out 
itself. It’s Frankensteins are destroying the whole 
system of private greed. In its place will come a passion 
for the common welfare, born of the knowledge that 
none can suffer or enjoy alone. 

Kane. That sounds good, Allen — but the soul of 
this civilization is in the market place. Thomas isn’t 
unique. He’s only a symptom of our disease. 

Mea A (half convinced). Well-I’m hopeful. 

Kane (lightly ). Cheer up—you can’t help that. 

Mead (smiling ). But tell me—if I’m in the old school 
of business, what is the new? 

Kane. Look at me. Do you think an indictment 
would hurt my business standing? Not one or a dozen 
—so long as I play safe and keep my assessments to 



40 


The Price of Money 

the bar paid. Privately my friends trust me; in busi¬ 
ness I have no friends. The old school gives value for 
its profits; the new school grabs a value wherever it 
can. It’s give and take in the old school; it’s graft in 
the new. We take from the people mostly, because 
they’re the easiest, but we’d just as leave take from the 
individual when he isn’t looking. Next to land and fran 
chises corporate securities are the easiest to juggle and 
unload on the people. It’s an easy game when you 
learn it, and the only regular ante is for lawyer’s fees. 
But you couldn’t play that game—it’s not in your 
blood. 

Mead. 1 don’t want to play it. I’m going to stay 
right here and fight out this thing. There are some de¬ 
cent men in the world. 

Kane. O, we’re all decent, Allen—more or less—but 
we all need the money. Even Thomas is decent, accord¬ 
ing to his light. 

Mead. He doesn’t need the money. 

Kane. No; it’s worse with him. He has it. 

Mead. Well, he can’t bully the whole town with his 
money. 

Kane. Can’t he? 

Mead. I’ll go to the newspapers. They’re keen for 
sensations. “Prominent and Wealthy Citizen Tries to 
Railroad PIis Broker to the Penitentiary”—that’s a 
story, isn’t it? I know some of the press men. 

Kane. Allen, you shock my sense of proportion. 

Mead. Financial proportion, 1 suppose you mean? 

Kane. Exactly. You couldn’t get one line in any city 
paper against Cyril Thomas. He’s immune. 

Mead. That’s absurd. 

Kane. Who owns the Second Avenue department 
store? 

Mead (askance). Well——Thomas-? 

Kane. How much advertising does that store give to 
each paper every day? 

Mead is silent. 

Kane. About a page a day, isn’t it? 

Mead (gloomily). ()—I guess you’re right. 

Kane. I am right. Thomas could burn your eyes out 
in the public street in broad daylight, and go scot free 
of press censure. 

Mead. Is the press so low as that? 

Kane. 1 he press needs the money-—-couldn’t run a 
day without it—couldn’t get, it if it displeased its adver¬ 
tisers. It isn’t a matter of high or low, but of money. 

Mead. God! You’d reduce the solar system to money. 

Kane. I couldn’t. Civilization has forestalled me— 
and made a very thoro job of it—tangled up the whole 
skein of life in money—hasn’t it? 

Mead. No; 1 can't see it so dismal as that. 



Act Three 


41 

Kane. Because your vision is in your heart instead of 
your head. You are seeing things as you want them to 
be. I see them as they are. 

Mead. Or maybe I’m feeling realities, while you are 
sensing appearances. 

Kane. I pass, Allen. That’s beyond me. But you’d 
better be planning to leave town. That’s a reality. 

Mead. What! Sneak off like a guilty man? 

Kane. Or stay and be convicted as one. 

Mead. I can’t. It’s impossible. Conviction, disgrace, 
anything but flight. Why, I couldn’t look myself in 
the face if I ran away now. 

Kane. You’ll not have a chance to look at your face 
if you stay here—unless you can smuggle a mirror into 
jail. 

Mead. Bosh! They can’t convict me; I’m innocent. 

Kane. There are thousands of innocent men in prison. 
It’s easier to convict an innocent man than a guility one, 
as a rule—and just as profitable to those who get their 
living that way. 

Mead. But I can’t turn and run under fire, Martin. 
It isn’t in my blood. 

Kane ( reflecting ). No—caution isn’t in your blood. 
Well, the indictments won’t come thru for a couple 
of weeks yet. I’ll put up cash bail for you—then we’ll 
see. But, pshaw! I haven’t enough money to beat 
Thomas in his own town . . . How did he get his 
money? I don’t seem to remember him. 

Mead. The unearned increment. He came here years 
ago and bought at acre prices land that’s now worth a 
thousand dollars a front foot. 

Kane. Did he put up any buildings? 

Mead. No; only a few shacks and tenements. He 
hung on to the ground and let others do the building. 
Now he’s practically running the town with the values 
that the people created for him and which their labor is 
paying him. 

Kane. H’m—you said that before, Allen. 

Mead. Well, it’s a good thing to say. The oftener it’s 
said the quicker it will be heeded. 

Kane. And then what? 

Mead. The people will take their own, the land will be 
open, and poverty cease. 

Kane. Not in this era—not while every intelligent 
man in America dreams of getting rich. Your social 
ideals are illusions—all ideals are illusions. 

Mead. On the contrary ideals are the most real t hings. 

Kane. You never get them? 

Mead. We never get anything else. All we have to¬ 
day is but the ideal of yesterday. Everything is an ideal 
before we attain it—and having attained it we seek 
another ideal. The ideal is something better—that’s all. 



42 The Price of Money 

The Indian who grinds his arrowhead sharper is realiz¬ 
ing an ideal. 

Kane. And having made his better arrowhead he 
finds it doesn’t satisfy. It wasn’t what he wanted, af¬ 
ter all. 

Mead. You slander the Indian. Having made a 
better arrowhead he doesn’t sit around the rest of his 
life and admire it. He uses it to kill a bigger deer, and 
with its skin he builds a better house. And in the better 
house he works on bigger plans, for larger ideals. It’s 
only the white man who pulls his last ideal down from 
the sky and shuts his life up in a little circle of sensa¬ 
tion and emotion. 

Kane. What is there beyond reason or feeling? 

Mead. There must be much that transcends all we 
now know—faculties and worlds that lie beyond the 
range of sense perception. 

Kane. Well, I’m glad you’ve fallen in love, Allen. 

Mead. Why not rise in love? 

Kane. Because it is a fall .... usually. 

Mead ( suspiciously ). How did you come to add that 
“usually?” 

Kane. I can leave it out, if you insist. 

Mead. No leave it in, for both of us. But why are you 
so glad about me? 

Kane. Something had to happen to chain you down 
to earth. These faculties beyond sense perception— 
they have wings, haven’t they? 

Mead. They are wings, Martin—the soul’s wings— 
and without them life would be of little worth. 

Kane {moodily). I don’t know thatit is of any worth. 

.... But I suppose a man really gets what he wants 
—what he really wants, I mean. 

Mead. I wonder— 

Kane {is sitting lazily in the big easy chair center ). 
Yes—men get what they really want. Even you could 
get money if you wanted it. 

Mead. I don’t see much connection between wanting 
money and getting it. Almost everybody wants it— 
and how few get it! 

Kane {slowly ). As many as want it enough to pay its 
price. 

Mead {thoughtfully, half reclining on the lounge ). The 
price of money! .... What is its price, Martin? . . . 
You ought to know. 

Kane {as he speaks dreamily the lights fall and slowly 
a blue haze pervades the room, blurring all outlines. It 
thickens till it wraps everything in an impenetrable cloud , 
and Kane’s voice seems far away ) The price of money! 

. . . . the price of money .... Few know what it is 
—and fewer still are ready to pay .... Some inherit 
—some are lucky, but the millions buy their money in 




Act Three 


43 

the open market .... It’s the most expensive thing 
on earth—and few can afford to buy more than a pit¬ 
tance. 

A D 11 E A M 

The thick blue mist thins out to a less opaque mid¬ 
summer green, and as outlines grow perceptible the 
scene looks like a little garden clearing at the edge of 
a deep, mysterious primal forest, with huge trees and 
dense foliage at the sides and back. 

A figure rises in front and paces back and forth. It is 
doubtless Kane, though the mist is too thick to see 
clearly. 

A form to the right arises, which resembles Mead sit¬ 
ting on a grass covered bank. 

Kane (his voice sounds strangely heavy and distant). 
I am Life, with a million dollars to sell to the highest 
bidder. O, men of earth. What bid ye for a million 
dollars, all coined in luring gold, or hid in bonds that 
hold a death grip on human toil? The sale’s begun—• 
what bid ye? 

Many Voices {coming low and musical, sounding jar 
away, some 'plaintive, others insistent, sad, gay, hopejul, 
despairing). Wishes! Hopes! Longings! Dreams! (The 
voices repeat and mingle, and finally expire in a tremu¬ 
lous threnody.) 

Kane. I hear the whispering of poets, the crooning of 
women and the soft voices of children. But not for 
them was coined red gold. ’Tis a full million ... an 
I hear no bid . . . .? 

Different Voices (mingling, yet distinct). I’ll work 
unceasingly. I’ll moil and worry for it—give joy, and 
health and peace— 

Kane (scornfully ). Not so is won a million. Cottage 
furniture and wholesome food do often fetch a higher 
price. 

Three Strident Voices. Pride is bid! I’ll cringe and 
live in fear. I’ll wear a mask and numb the heart! 

Kane (scornfully). These buy but modest homes in 
Smugville with trailing vines on porch and grapha- 
phone in the parlor. It’s wealth I’m selling—a million 
dollars. Bid lively! 

Many Voices. I’ll lie! Cheat! Steal! Give honor, 
decency, manhood! (Kane waves them all aside derisive¬ 
ly, till one, louder than all, shouts): I’ll murder for it! 

Kane ( quickly). At last. A fair bold bid is murder, 
and the voice sounds like a man’s. But it wins scant 
gold in these times when men are butchered by machin¬ 
ery. Back to the grave, Borgia! Make way for a child 
slaver! 

Voice. I’ll deceive my dearest and closest friend. 

Kane (laughs in-derision ). That wins no money. It’s 
the price of an intrigue with a neighbor’s wife. Not 



44 


The Price of Money 

soul affinities, 1 offer, but minted gold with a drop of 
blood on every coin! Do I hear no bid for a million 

dollars? 

Wild Sobbing Voice. I’ll give my soul for it! 

Kane. The bid’s rejected. Man who’d sell their souls 
have none, anti they who buy are swindled. ’Tis an 
honest sale, my friends. A million dollars! What am 
I bid! 

Stern Voice (in the distance ). I’ll give everything else 
in life for it! 

Kane ( thoughtfully ). ’Tis a good bid—. But, stay! 
that’s the price of Just Love Entire—and this is gold— 


the sweat and blood of men!.Ah, me! the 

times are hard—I’ll let it go.No; wait. I see 


a looming shape. ( From the depths of the forest slowly 
emerges a huge figure that seems to grow smaller as it 
advances. When it reaches the clearing it is well enough 
defined to be recognizable as Cyril Thomas.) Mayhap 
it knows the value of a million. (Warningly) Going! 
a million—going-! 

Thomas (ponderously ). I’ll make it first in life! 

Kane. Sold! Nor heaven nor hell could keep great 
wealth from such a bid. (The atmosphere suddenly 
thickens again. Nothing is visible but a dense gray 
cloud, out of which Kane’s voice comes thickly and 

dreamily. ) The gold is yours.That’s the 

price of money.Those who pay, get it. 

( Quickly the mist clears, the Dream is ended, and 
the room and its tivo occupants are as before.) 


Kane (rousing). The trouble with you, Allen— 

Mead (sitting ). We weren’t talking of trouble, but of 
money. 

Kane. They’re the same. The trouble is that you’re 
worshiping a far-away God. 

Mead (rubbing his eyes). Strange; I could swear I 
saw Thomas there. I almost dozed an instant. 

Kane. Wake up. 1 say you’re a heretic to the only 
true God. 

Mead (still dazed \ The God money, you mean? 

Kane. Your acumen this evening is quite startling. 

Mead. I can’t imagine a more distant God than 
money, for most people. 

Kane. His presence is invisible to the unfaithful, 
but his influence is ever with us, my son. Hast never 
felt the nearness of his almighty effulgence? 

Mead. Daily, father, his stamped and milled omnis¬ 
cience is uppermost in my commercial heart. 

Kane. Your commercial heart is somewhat less ex¬ 
pansive than the sea, Allen. Thou’rt an unbeliever. 

Mead. You’re a faithful priest of the nearby God, 
Martin. 









Act Three 


45 

Kane. Nay. but an humble wandering mendicant. 

Mead. Not so, father. I count thee a high priest of 
the inner temple. 

Kane. Alas! no, my son.And that’s the 

hell of it, Allen. 1 ought to be worth a few millions 
right now. 

Mead. Ugh! What would you do with it? 

Kane. I’d clean Thomas out of this town. I’d buy 
over his head—and make it possible for you to stay 

here.Alas! I have wasted my talents in 

riotous ways! I have wandered off among the false 
Gods. In my youth I was unrighteous. Behold me 
with a hundred thousand or so—little better than a 
pauper—now, when I could use real money, if I had 
it. But my hand against millions! It’s out of the ques¬ 
tion. It needs a superior force to combat Thomas. 

Mead. Don’t brains and intelligence count? 

Kane. Only money will buy legal cunning and tech¬ 
nical trickery.An ocean voyage would do 

you and Grace both good. Allen. 

Mead. Well, well, we ll think no more of it tonight 

.Perhaps I must worship the true God a little 

harder. 

Kane. Thou speakest well, my son. Bless thee! 
May his radiance lie cast about thee and guide thee in 
the narrow paths of collateral righteousness. 

Bel! Boy ( looks in ). Mister Kane— 

Kane. Right here. 

Mead. Alnnen! 

Kane (reading card from Belt Boy). No—ah woman, 
it appears—to see the holy father of dollars. ( To Bell 
Boy). Show her in here. (Bell Boy ). Allen, disap¬ 
pear, please. Will see you in the lobby. 

Mead (going). All right. And then suppose we have 
a glimpse of the woman of Tony’s? I’m curious. You 
never did show me. 

Kane. No-not tonight. 

Mead. But you were so anxious that I should see her. 
Have you forgotten? 

Kane. I wish you’d forget, Allen. 

Mead (seriously ). I think she means a good deal to 
you, Martin- 

Kane issilent as Mead passes out. 

Marian enters 

Kane (greets her impulsively ). Marian. 

Marian (quietly ). I wanted to see you. 

Kane. You know I’m proud of that, don’t you— 
of your wanting to see me? 

Marian. You have been a great comfort. 

I need a friend now. 

Kane (eagerly). And you come here—to me—? 

Marian. Yes. I haven’t found many friends. 








46 The Price of Money 

Kane. The strong seldom do. It isn’t meant that 
they should— 

Marian. By whom isn’t it meant? 

Kane. Oh, that’s just language, like Allen uses. 
No one plans anything, so far as 1 can see. 

Marian. Isn’t there a God? 

Kane. He hasn’t revealed himself to me. 

Marian. Nor to me. 

Kane. God is what men worship-and that is 

money. 

Marian. But over and above it all, isn’t there a 
Being who rules and plans things? Sometimes I’d like 
to think there was. 

Kane. I’d like to find a God for you, Marian—but 
I don’t know where to look. You haven’t been much 
of a leaner in your life, yet the deep charm of the 
woman nature that seeks a God outside itself is strong 
in you. If I thought the heavens held a God, I’d search 
him out for you. 

Marian. Don’t you crave for something wiser and 
stronger than yourself to lean on—sometimes? 

Kane. Not often. I must get strength out of myself 
—or go without it. That’s life. 

Marian ( inwardly groping; his words sound like 
a doom, and she almost staggers — then, ivith a pathos 
which he doesn't notice inmediately ): O! there must be 
something in the universe wiser than man!—some 
higher, diviner thing! 

Kane ( abstracted: instinctively he senses her trouble, 
and for days has been pondering it, but with masculine 
obtuseness does not realize its nearness ). Well, it isn’t 
woman. 

Marian ( smiling wearily). No; it isn’t woman. 

Kane. And whatever it is, it doesn’t bother its head 
about you and me—its head or its heart. 

Marian (in pain). O! it hasn’t a heart, I am sure, 
or such things couldn’t be! 

Kane. What things, Marian? What things? (Takes 
her hand) Of course you didn’t come here just to talk. 
Something has happened. Can I help? 

Marian (staggers slightly ). Thomas . . . Grace . . . 

Kane. I saw it coming. Now he forces. 

Does he threaten? 

Marian. Exposure. 

Kane. Of course. (Turns away, deep in thought, and 
then): But even that-—have you considered it? 

Marian. Death is better—kinder, I am sure. Is it 
wrong to take her life? 

Kane. You don’t mean that? 

Marian. There is nothing else. I can see nothing. 

Kane. No—no! This is beyond belief. This isn’t the 
middle ages. We’re not serfs of the Cencisand Borgias! 




47 


Act Three 

Marian. We are serfs of money. 

Kane ( rehelliously). Not to the point of buying vir¬ 
gins! not to the point of life and death. 

Marian ( calmly). Virgins are bought and sold every 
day in this city. 

Kane ( not heeding). Why, this is America—a 
Twentieth century republic—not Rome or Venice 
in the dark ages. We are dreaming—living in some 
past existence—dimly recalling old horrors! We will 
wake. Such things can’t happen now! 

Marion. They happen every day, Martin. This isn’t 
an unusual case. 

Kane ( excitedly ). But it can’t happen to you! 
I’ll expose him! drive him out of town! I’ll pillory 
him to the scorn of decent people. I’ll spend every 
cent I have.! 

Marian. Unless you have a great deal more than 
him it would do no good. He has his own way here. 
Unless you could purchase those who serve him— 

Kane. Even that I’ll do! 

Marian. And even then—no, Martin, you’d have to 
change the whole scheme of things to alter this. I 
am one of many. 

Kane (/or an instant hopeless). True! true! 

Marian. To know—that her mother was—her own 
mother was—a— 

Kane ( taking both her hands , speaking fiercely ) 
That her mother was a prostitute! It’s true. Let’s 
face it. Can’t we show her that all the world’s in the 
same traffic—men and women alike? Some sell their 
talents, their mentality! Some sell their freinds, 
their love, and their manhood! The many sell but 
their health, their sweat, the blood of their hearts, or 
the strength of their bodies—but all sell! all sell! 
and not one in ten thousand sell so nobly as you have 
sold! Can’t we show her that, and laugh at Thomas 
and his wealth? It’s true! All life is buy and sell! It’s 
true—true as hell! true as daily life! 

Marian. Ah! can you see things in a big way like 
that? 

Kane. Yes; when life brings it home to us—then 
we see. 

Marian. No; some never see. 

Kane. They will. 

Marian. Perhaps—in flashes—as we see it now. 
But the vision soon fades. We go back to the day’s 
round—and what the neighbours say, that is what 

counts in a woman’s life.She is better dead 

in my arms than to know the truth of her mother’s 
life. O! is there no God! 

Kane. There arc times when some other than a 
money God would be handy, Marian. 


48 The Price of Money 

Marian ( bitterly). But we never think so till need 
drives us. We might have found one— 

Kane. None that would shape events for us. 

Marion ( pleadingly ). But one that might show us 
the way out of our tangles? 

Kane. 1 have no such faith. 

Marian. Nor I such a light. Only it might be— I 
don’t know. {Wringing her hands) No—you couldn’t 
win over Thomas—nor change the scheme of life— 

and God won’t help!.But it’s hard to—to— 

O! I must! 

Kane. No; you can’t do that. There’s some other 
way. You and she could leave the city—hide— 

Marian. You can’t hide from money. The Pinkerton 
force of the world is at his command. I knew a girl 
who ran away. 1 helped her. She went to Brazil. 
They brought her back. She was stubborn—and died 
in jail—died of shame. 

Kane. I could hide you. 

Marian. They would kill you. 

Kane. Small matter of that. 

Marian. But the life of a fugitive. How could it be 
explained to Grace and her father? I think of him, too. 
He’s the only man I ever knew, Martin—but you. 
He’s weak and the world despises him—and the old 
romance is gone—but he’s a bigger man to me than 
any of the money men I scorned for him. 

Kane. You were as bad as Allen. That’s the trouble 
with you people—you don’t learn the value of money 
till it’s too late to get it by the established rules of 
prostitution—and then you get all tangled when you 
do wake. 

Marian (grimly). That’s true—but I’m not com¬ 
plaining .I sold a good deal for money, much 

more than I intended, it seems— but I didn't sell love. 

Kane. You should have sold that first. It brings the 
best price. 

Marian ( after a pause). Death is not expensive. 

Kane. Next to human life it’s the cheapest thing 
on earth. 

Marian ( meditatively). Yes.everything else 

would mean exposure.There’s no way but 

the one— 

Kane (calmly ). Then kill him instead of her. 

Marian. That wouldn’t be any use. It would be 
to kill her as well—and after she had known. My life 

has been to save her. Must it be for nothing?. 

No, she must die but once—not slowly of deceit and 
dread as I have been dying. It can’t be that I have 
done this thing to no purpose. ( Vehemently) It shall not 
be! (She is silent a moment. Kane is deep in thought, 
his face hidden in his hands. Almost vaguely, yet with 









Act Three 


49 

harshness and defiance she slowly speaks ): I have had 
no real shame for my life. It has been as clean as the 

world would let me keep it.I sold, but only 

at my own price, at my own time, and of my own 
will. I have held myself aloof when I would—and 
been a slave to no man. My life has been freer than 
that of women who sell themselves for life. I married 
for love, and was free. I sold myself—and still was 

free.O! it’s all right—all but the lies, the 

constant deceit ! 

Kane. Do women hate to lie? 

Marian. Not the petty lying, the little lies that save 
from scoldings—not the lies of the flirt or the drudge— 
these are easily learned. But the big lies—the huge 
deceits of a double life—the constant fear of detection! 
It has been a long nightmare! It has broken me. 
My woman’s nature has changed. 

Kane. It has grown richer. 

Marian. No; it has grown harder—that is all. 
(They are silent—then she, meditatively ): But he must 
never know. I owe him that and am glad to pay it. 
And she must die but once—and unknowing. She 
shall fall asleep in my arms. Isn’t it better that way? 

Kane is silent. 

Marian ( calmly ). That’s right, Martin. No one can 
decide for another. One is always alone at the crisis. 

Kane. Alone! God! how alone you have stood in 
life! I see you as a huge gray statue of the world’s 
woe standing high above the writhing human mass! 

Marian ( sloivly ). You could procure the death 
certificate? It will be expensive— 

Kane. Don’t, don’t talk of expense—to me!. 

But can it be purchased? Physicians are harder to 
reach? 

Marian. Money will reach anything in this city— 
even that? But it will cost— 

Kane. O! if it cost life—( he stops suddenly.) But 
don’t decide yet. 

Marian. Fate decides for me—leaves me no choice. 

I only bow.In her sleep—in my arms. 

It will be beautiful. I shall envy her.Death 

is beautiful! 

Kane. To you or me, perhaps. But not to her. 
(A pause). Is the time short? 

Marian. A day or two. 

Kane. Delay a week. / 

Marian. Why delay? O, it’s no use! It would be a 
terrible risk. 

Kane. Lie to him, put him off, have her sick. Give 
me a week! Wait and hope for a week! 

Marian. I dare not. 

Kane. You must!.You trust me, Marian? 








50 


The Price of Money 

Marian. Doesn’t it seem so? 

Kane. No man was ever more richly rewarded than 
he who gains your trust. Her confidence is the most 

that any woman has to give-and it’s more than a 

man ever gains—and keeps, in this world.I 

have yours, Marian- 

Marian. You have—completely. 

Kane. I would keep it. 

Marian. You could hardly loose it, Martin. 

Kane. I shall not lose it. ( He is silent; then, weighing 
his words): Of course, she mustn’t die: that’s not 
right. Life is sweet to her—a fascinating mystery 
that lures. It’s still a mystery for all of us—but for 
some the lure is gone. She must live. There is an 
alternative. 

Marian. I read your heart, Martin. 

Kane (hastily). Don’t do it! Don’t! You must 
leave me alone! 

Marian ( takes his hands and searches him with her 
gaze). Is life so little to you, then? 

Kane (answering her look). It is more to me now 
than it ever was before— but perhaps J know better 
where to find. it. 

Marian (her face brightening). I understand you. 
(They are gazing intently in each other's eyes.) 

Kane (slowly). I don’t find death there—but life! 
—life!—and something more! 

Marian (an intense thrill passing over her ). Can it 
be that this—this—is life? 

Kane. It—is—more—than—life!. You— 

will—wait—a week—Marian? 

Marian. Yes. (Their eyes are fixed on each others' and 
their hands clasped, almost at arm's length, as the Curtain 
falls.) 

END OF ACT THREE 


ACT FOUR 
Time: A week later. 

■Scene: Living room of the Wilson home in an apart¬ 
ment house at 41st and Oak streets—one of those 
“modest and sanctified homes” into which the “here¬ 
sies of social discontent” have not entered. The main 
entrance is about center of background. To the right 
is a bay window looking out on Oak street, and here 
John Wilson is-cosily ensconced in a rocker, his feet 
on an opposing chair, his head thrown back, his spec¬ 
tacles on his forehead, and the evening paper slipped 
from his hands. Left of center in front is a table with 









Act Four 51 

electric lamp rising above it. On the table is a silver 
ice water tank and three glasses on a tray. In the left 
upper corner is the telephone on a small writing desk. 
To left front is a piano, and between the piano and the 
telephone is a door to another room. Otherwise the 
furnishings are very tasteful, but more pronounced for 
comfort than for elegance. 

As the curtain rises 

Grace enters 

from door at left, tiptoes across the room, and steals up 
behind her father. 

Grace. We’re to go to the roof garden tonight, 
father—just you and I—what a lark! 

Wilson (rousing). My, my, child! that’s expensive. 

Grace. No, it isn’t. The tickets didn’t cost us any¬ 
thing and the carfare and ice cream are my treat. Any 
way, it’s mother’s orders. She says you need the ex¬ 
citement. 

Wilson. That mother of ours is a wonderful manager. 

Grace. We have quite a respectable income now that 
I’m working. 

Wilson. Yes, you’re a big help .... Ah, we’ve lost 
our girl— 

Grace. No, you haven’t, father; here she is (her 
arms about his neck ). 

Wilson. It’s a great big woman now. She came and 
stole away a tiny girl that used to climb on my lap. 
What have you done with her, woman? 

Grace. A big giant came and ate her up, father. 

Wilson. Yes, the giants eat up all the children. 

Grace. Would you rather have the little girl or the 
big girl, daddy? 

Wilson. I’d keep ’em both if I could — the one of 
four and the one of sixteen. I’d trade you off for those 
two girls. 

Grace. Neither of them could take you to the roof 
garden tonight. 

Wilson. How the child does talk! I’ll take you to 
the roof garden, Miss Wilson, if you’ll promise not to 
look at any other young man. . . But where is Allen? 

Grace. He sent the tickets. He couldn’t go. 

Wilson. So I’m only second choice—I see . . When 
is it going to be, Grace? 

Grace. When is what going to be? 

Wilson. Aren’t you a hypocrite to ask that? 

Grace. What’s your hurry? You seem dreadfully 
anxious to get rid of me. 

Wilson. I want to see (pulls down her head and 
whispers ) the baby. 

Grace is eloquently and blushingly silent. 

Wilson. Allen’s a fine fellow, but he hasn’t much 
money, I guess. 


52 


The Price of Money 

Grace. Who cares if he hasn’t? 

Wilson. Ah, that’s just like your mother. She 
was a stylish girl, but they couldn’t make her marry 
for money— 

Grace. Now don’t you go reminisencing, father. 
You have to be young tonight and wear your dress 
suit and flirt with me. 

Wilson. Think of it—a seventy-five dollar a month 
clerk with an evening suit! 

Grace. You’re always thinking about our income! 
The legacy that Aunt Maggie left helped lots. We’re 
not so poor. 

Wilson. Poor! I should think not. Why, we’re rich, 

with such a manager.It’s strange, Grace— 

I often think of that—how Aunt Maggie could leave 
us anything. 

Grace. She didn’t leave it to us; she left it to mother. 

Wilson. But she never liked your mother. 

Grace. Maybe that’s why she did it — to ease her 
conscience before she died. Fancy anybody not liking 
our mother! 

Wilson. But your Aunt Maggie had nothing. She 
was poor. How could she—? 

Grace. O, well, she did. Isn’t that enough? 

Wilson. Yes—-yes—of course; that’s enough. 

Grace. I know why she left it, father. 

Wilson. Why? 

Grace. Because she couldn’t take it with her. 

Wilson (smiling, but thoughtful). Ah, yes; but where 
did she get it to leave? 

Grace. Oh, that’s the least of our troubles. We’ve 
spent it. I kept in school on it. 

Wilson (resignedly). Yes; that’s the least of our 
troubles .... Perhaps I’ll get a raise soon. 

Grace. Now, now, father, don’t be worrying your 
head about money. Mother says our income is enough, 
and there’s a little in the bank. 

Wilson. Such a manager! Isn’t she wonderful? 
I haven’t done my share. My salary wouldn’t go very 
far in the hands of any other woman. 

Housekeeper (an elderly woman, appears at hall 
doorway rear ). Some one to see your mother, Miss, 
and she ain’t back yet. 

Grace. Who is it? 

Housekeeper. Mr. Thomas, he says his name is. 

Grace (aside). The old beast! 

Wilson (looks askance at Grace). Better show him 
in here, I suppose. I don’t know him. (Rises). 

Grace. I must go and dress. Don’t be late, father. 
(Exits left). 

Thomas enters — 

shown in by the Housekeeper who immediately goes. 



53 


Act Four 

Wilson. Good evening, sir. 

Thomas (; perspiring and fanning with hat). Good 
evening. Mrs. Wilson is not at home? 

Wilson. Have a chair, please. Won’t you have a glass 
of ice water ( pours and hands). 

Thomas (sits to right of table). It’s warm. 

Wilson (returns to his rocker, drawing it closer 
Thomas). My wife is at Mrs. Markham’s. She’ll be 
back soon. Are you acquainted with Miss Markham, 
Mr. Thomas—did I understand? 

T homas ( nods assent and, helps himself to more water ) 
I don’t believe 1 know Miss—er—Makam, did you say? 

Wilson. Markham, sir. My wife visits her a great 
deal. A very worthy lady of means, I believe, who is 
interested in the Home for Boys. 

Thomas. Ah. yes—a very commendable charity. My 
errand with your wife is in that connection. 

Wilson. O, then I know she’ll be pleased to see you. 

Thomas. I trust so. Ahem— (The conversation lan¬ 
guishes till Wilson picks up evening paper) 

Wilson (reading ). “Socialism Breaks Up a Home” 
—h’m— 

• Thomas. Yes; these new fangled theories threaten 
all our American institutions. 

Wilson (honestly seeking). Is that so? I really don’t 
know what socialism is, Mr. Thomas. 

Thomas. You’re better off for not knowing. A 
man’s head shouldn’t be filled with such rubbish. 

Wilson (disappointed). O, then you can’t tell me 
about it. I’d like to know— 

Thomas (candidly ). I can truthfully say I know 
nothing about socialism. I’ve no patience with these 
anarchistic theories. 

Wilson (bewildered ). Is socialism anarchistic? 

Thomas (tartly). All these new fangled theories are 
the same. They must be suppressed. 

Wilson (hopefully). I suppose you know something 
about them? 

Thomas. Not a thing. I wouldn’t bother my head 
with them. 

Wilson (timidly ). You know they’re evil? 

Thomas. That’s quite different. A man should al¬ 
ways be able to distinguish right from wrong. 

Wilson (rebuked). Y—es; I suppose so— (Picks up 
paper and presently reads ): “Free lovers”— 

Thomas. Yes— these socialists are all free lovers. 

Wilson. That was in another column I was reading— 

Thomas. O, it’s all the same. All these wild ideas 
are a menace to existing conditions. 

Wilson (meekly ). Y—e—s. (Musingly ) But love is 
ahvays free, isn’t it—like air and sunshine, I should 
think-? 



54 The Price of Money 

Thomas. Such things must be regulated by law. 

Wilson. But you can’t love by law, can you? I 
don’t need a law to love anybody. 

Thomas ( severely ). It is quite disgusting, this idea of 
free love. We have our marriage laws to uphold. 

Wilson ( dubiously ). O—the marriage laws!—but I 
thought they regulated property. Do the marriage laws 
regulate love? 

Thomas. O, they’re all the same—property, love 
and marriage. 

Wilson (quite astonished). Is that so? 

Thomas (sententiously ). Yes; they’re all one in law. 
The law is a very deep study. 

Wilson. Isn’t it, now? It’s all a tangle to me. I 
never could understand the law .... That’s funny, 
now ( laughs )—It’s made for the poor and they don’t 
know what it is-. It’s bad to be poor— 

Thomas. O, it’s good for others than the poor. I use 
it frequently. 

Wilson. Do you? ( A pause: reading paper again ) I 
wish they could make a law giving all these poor peo¬ 
ple plenty work— 

Thomas. That’s socialistic talk. There’s always work # 
in this country for the willing. 

Wilson. It says in the paper here, “Five thousand 
men and 3,000 boys laid off at the coal mines”—and 
here, it says, “Families in want”— 

Thomas. That’s all newspaper talk. These men could 
get something to do if they were willing to work. The 
trouble is that the people have exaggerated ideas of 
the pay they should receive. Now when I was a young 
man 1 was glad to work for eight dollars a month. 

Wilson ( sizing up his good clothes and watch fob ). 
But you got a raise soon? 

Thomas. I saved my money and got ahead. With 
my first $300 I started in the hardware business. 

Wilson. That was good. But you couldn’t start in 
business now with $300, could you—with all the big 
stores? 

Thomas. Conditions have changed, of course, and 
our working classes must learn to adapt themselves 
to the changes. It is their extravagance that causes 
their poverty. 

Wilson ( dubiously ). I suppose so. But it’s hard for 
a salaried man to get along sometimes. Now I’ve 
been with our firm over twelve years. I started at $40 
a month. Well, 1 may get another raise soon. 

Thomas ( comfortingly ). We should each fill the sta¬ 
tion in which Providence has placed us. 

Wilson. But a man ought to try to get a larger salary 
—don’t you think? 

Thomas. If he can do so without disturbing existing 



Act Four 


55 


conditions, but I always maintain that the proper 
spirit for a loyal American citizen is to accept uncom¬ 
plainingly the responsibilities of his sphere in life. 

Wilson ( thoughtfully). I’ve worked hard all my life 
. . . . The high salaried places are so few, and there 
are so many of us in the low salaried places .... 
Well, I’m not complaining— 

Thomas. You evince a very proper spirit, Mr. Wil¬ 
son. 1 always commend it to my employes. 

Wilson ( Looking up). Have you many employes? 

Thomas ( patronizingly ). O, yes; a good many. In 
the department store alone there are over a thousand. 

Wilson ( greatly surprised ). O, this is Mr. Thomas of 
the Second Avenue Department Store? 

Thomas ( with dignity). You are quite right—and 
of the Land Syndicate, the Water Corporation, the 
Gas and Electric Company. I am active in a number of 
interests. 

Wilson ( awed ). I hope you will pardon—my—ah— 
I had no idea. 

Thomas ( magnanimously ). Don’t mention it. Per¬ 
haps I could manage to find you a better position. 
There may be a vacancy—say for a hundred a month— 

Wilson ( eagerly ). I should be very grateful. 

Thomas. Perhaps I can manage it. I must confer 
with Mrs. Wilson first about—about this charitable 
institution. I hope to enlist the interest of your daugh¬ 
ter, also, in that. 

Wilson. I am sure you will find them both anxious 
to assist in charitable work. My wife has been very 
much interested in this home for boys. Its affairs 
call her away very often, sometimes most unexpected¬ 
ly. But as we are unable to contribute in any other 
way, I don’t complain. 

Thomas. That is the correct attitude. I trust you 
will always maintain it. 

Wilson (garrulously ). My wife does wonderfully well 
on our income. We live comfortably. I often wonder 
how she does it. 

Thomas. Sometimes women have ways of their own 
of making both ends meet. I presume Mrs. Wilson is 
very economical. That is the keystone of true content¬ 
ment. Always live on a little less than you earn. I 
was very economical when I was poor. That was the 
basis of my success. 

Wilson. My wife is very economical—I suppose— 
or we couldn’t get along so well on our small income. 
This has been a very happy home sir. We three pull 
together very well. 

Thomas clears his throat and takes another drink. 
Again the conversation languishes and Wilson has re¬ 
course to the newspaper. 


56 The Price of Money 

Wilson (reading). There has been a murder in the 
redlight district, I see. What we call our social evil 
must be a dreadful thing, Mr. Thomas—worse than 
socialism, isn’t it? 

Thomas (tolerantly). O, the social evil is rather a 
necessity. I don’t regard it entirely an unmixed evil. 
It is a very time-honored institution, you know. 
We could hardly get along without it. 

Wilson. But the poor souls who live such wretched 
lives—that always appeals to me. 

Thomas. We must consider these matters from a 
broader standpoint. 

Wilson. And not think of the poor creatures who 
have to live in such misery? 

Thomas. That is mere sentimentality. Women who 
choose such lives have no cause to complain. 

Wilson (surprised). Do they choose such lives? Do 
they go in the slums and redlight willingly? 

Thomas. Why of course. How else could they get 
there? No one forces them. 

Wilson (timidly tenacious ). Well, I supposed hunger 
—poverty—the need of .money drove them there. 

Thomas (sharply). That is idle sentiment, Mr. 
Wilson. As practical men let us talk reasonably. 
Prostitution is like poverty, a necessary basis for a 
high state of civilization. Upon the firmness and stab¬ 
ility of these lower strata, so to speak, is built the mag¬ 
nificent progress of the Twentieth century. Any 
attempt to disturb them must result disastrously 
upon our civilization. 

Wilson (confused). Indeed—yes—er— 

Thomas. We must be very careful not to unsettle 
existing conditions. It is the first duty of every patri¬ 
otic citizen to uphold the glorious institutions that 
make this nation the refuge of the oppressed and 
downtrodden races. 

Wilson (exhibiting his almost inconceivable ignorance ). 
Is it really that, Mr. Thomas—a land of refuge for 
the oppressed? 

Thomas (pained and surprised ). Weren’t you taught 
that at school? Isn’t it printed and illustrated in all 
the school books? 

Wilson. I hardly know, sir. The fact is I didn’t 
go to school. I was too sickly. I learned to read at 
home—till I was strong enough to work. 

Grace appears at door left trying to attract her father's 
attention. 

Thomas. That was unfortunate. But you should 
have been taught to read out of the proper books. 

Wilson. It was the Bible I learned out of. 

Thomas. Well—ahem! A very good book. But the 
law must regulate these things and see that children 



Act Four 


57 

have the proper books. I must make a note of that 
for the legislative committee. ( Writes in memo book) 
Wilson ( sees Grace's signals). Pardon me a moment, 
sir. ( Goes to Grace in doorway ) 

Grace (whispering). You must come and dress now. 
Mother is here. ( Pulls him thru the door in spite of 
effort to go back and be polite to Thomas) Both Exit 

Marian enters 

from door at back, comes do\vn softly and stands before 

Thomas an instant before he is aware of her presence. 

When he turns and sees her she is Sphinxlike. 

Thomas ( looks around and sees they are alone). Are 

you trying to trick me? 

Marian ( calmly ). The delay was unavoidable. 

Thomas. I came to make a final enquiry. 1 don’t like 

trouble apd confusion—but you’ve lied to me. 

Marian. Grace was ill. It was impossible. 

Thomas. I was out of town. I got back today, and 

things are not as I paid for and as you agreed. 

Marian. Everything is ready. This evening— 

Thomas. No—you can’t get the key now, and I’ve 

a business engagement. 

Marian. Whatever time you set. 

Thomas. I’m a man of few words. I act. If the girl’s 

not there by 1 o’clock tomorrow I’ll have you exposed 

in the press—and I’ll get the girl anyway. 

Marian. Very well. 

«/ 

Thomas. 1 have no faith in such women as you, 
but you ought to know my power here. You’ll feel 
it. That’s all. ( Turns to go) 

Kane enters 

rear door and stands facing Thomas. The latter tries to 
pass Kane, but finds it impossible. 

Thomas ( surprised ). Mr. Kane— 

Kane ( searching for Thomas' eyes). Good evening. 
( Aside to Marian) Go, at once, please and see that 
we’re not disturbed. (Marian exits right) I wanted to 
speak with you, Mr. Thomas. We had better be seated. 

Thomas (< advances toward door, but does not meet 
Kane's steady and piercing gaze). I’ve no time now, 
Mr. Kane. Tomorrow. ( Looks at his watch). I have 
an important board meeting. 

Kane ( quietly ). No—tonight—now. 

1 ho mas. This is not the time or place for a business 
talk. ( Tries to advance, but is balked by Kane's pres¬ 
ence and steady gaze). Step aside, there. I’m going out. 

Kane ( quietly and firmly). We are going to talk 
first. It needn’t be about business. 

Thomas (contemptuously, tho evading Kane’s glance ). 
Do you set your will against mine. 

Kane. You have no will. You have only money. 
Thomas. I have enough to fix you in this town. 


58 


The Price of Money 

Kane. The reign of money is over. 

Thomas {sneering). Not in your lifetime, or mine. 

Kane. The reign of money is over. 

Thomas {angrily). Let me pass, there! 

Kane. You can’t pass while I stand here. 

Thomas {looks up threateningly, hut drops his eyes 
before the steady, piercing gaze. Again he attempts to 
advance, raising his hand as tho to brush aside Kane. 
The latter’s fixed gaze renders him powerless. He drops 
his hand, backs away a pace and sullenly grumbles): 
Is this a rehearsal for private theatricals? I’m a busy 
man. 

Kane. We are going to talk a little. 

Thomas {curious). What about? 

Kane. It’s warm. Let’s be seated. 

Thomas {again tries to meet Kane’s eyes, fails, 
glares an instant at the frail form that opposes him, then 
contemptuously goes to the telephone. While he is trying 
to get central Kane locks the door and takes out the key). 

Kane {coming center). You find it dead, don’t you? 

Thomas {coming center ). Do you think it safe to 
oppose me in this city? 

Kane {still searching for Thomas’ eyes). We are 
isolated from your city now. 

Thomas. Preposterous! We’re living in a modern 
city, guarded by police. {Meaningly ) You seem to for¬ 
get that. {Passes down to table and drinks.) 

Kane. I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. Two 
of the police commissioners are your appointees, and 
you control the third. The Mayor, most of the coun- 
cilmen, the city attorney, the judiciarv—about the 
whole city and county and most of the state is yours. 
Every one who wants to serve the people comes to you. 

Thomas {pridefully ). It’s a well-governed city— 
more churches than saloons. 

Kane. It’s the tamest and most-governed city on 
the map—and you’re its hidden, but real Czar. 

Thomas {with an approach to sarcasin). Perhaps 
you exaggerate my importance in municipal affairs. 

Kane. 1 couldn’t. It is about absolute. I have taken 
the measure of this town and find you own a large part 
of it and control the rest. You are far too modest, 
Mr. Thomas. 

Thomas. Whatever I have, I have earned. 

Kane. Yes, I know all about that. I have earned a 
little myself. Your earnings are the increase of popu¬ 
lation, the sweat of interest, the honest toil of fore¬ 
closed mortgages, the industry of bribed officials, 
and the thrift of stolen franchises. 

Thomas. Bah! Am I here to listen to such anarchis¬ 
tic talk? {Goes toward bay window). 

Kane (• intercepting, reaches window first, lowers it 


Act Four 


59 

and pulls down shade). Pretty quiet on Oak street 
—mostly tree tops. ( Turns and again searches for 
Thomas’ eyes. The latter quails and moves away) 

Thomas. What does all this mean? ( He is fearless 
and arrogant, but angry and perplexed at the strange 
situation ). 

Kane {quietly but forcefully ). Let’s be seated. 

Thomas stubbornly resists the command and tries to 
glare at Kane. The latter motions with his hands and 
glares so fixedly at Thomas that in spite of himself he 
quails again and sinks into a chair beside the table. 

Kane. You must stay here awhile and listen to me 
(looks at his watch) say till 9 o’clock. I want to talk 
to you about yourself. You have never thought much 
about yourself, have you? 

Thomas. That’s twaddle. 

Kane. You’re not much of a hypocrite, Thomas. 
You believe most of the platitudes you utter. But 
why do you lie about certain tilings and pretend to be 
different from what you are? 

Thomas. Don’t you know I can make you sweat for 
. this? I thought you were a man of means and character. 

Kane. I’m a man of your kind, Thomas—used to 
buying what I want. 

Thomas. We make short work of anarchists and 
demagogues in this city. 

Kane. We will pass that phase of the case temporarily 
I want to enquire why you and your friends don’t 
gather into a private harem all the youngest daughters 
of the poor families, and train them for your exclusive 
amusement? 

Thomas ( insolently ). Umph! Never thought of that. 

Kane. Is that the only reason? 

Thomas. O, it would be too expensive. 

Kane. However, you’d do it if you wanted to? 

Thomas. Why of course. 

Kane. There’s nothing to prevent you? 

Thomas. What could there be? 

Kane. Not the police, I suppose. 

Thomas {sneering). I should say not. 

Kane. Nor the law, in a general way? 

Thomas {sincerely ). I pay my legal expenses. 

Kane. It might leak out thru the press? 

Thomas. Not while I pay my advertising bills. 

Kane. So you don’t have public opinion to fear? 

Thomas {contemptuously). What’s public opinion? 

Kane. There you have me, Thomas. I don’t know 
what it is—except sound in a political speech. I sup¬ 
pose it’s what the people think they think when they 
read your newspapers. 

Thomas {petulantly). I don’t know what you’re 
driving at. {Goes to door left and tries it). 


60 


The Price of Money 

Kane (takes out vial and empties few drops in glass 
which he sets in front of tank, putting back the other 
glasses). You find the door locked, don’t you? 1 said 
9 o’clock. Then you will be free. Till then we must 
talk. Now about this private harem, or any other 
atrocity, you’d do it if you wanted to, I suppose. 

Thomas. Why, of course. 

Kane. But you haven’t much time for amusements? 

Thomas (< coming back to table). Very little time. 

Kane. You’re kept pretty busy with your schemes? 

Thomas ( innocently ). Wealth and power have great 
responsibilities. 

Kane. I’ve noticed that. Keeps us busy telling other 
people how to be satisfied without wealth. And there’s 
the task of piling up the millions, one on top of the 
other. How many millions have you? 

Thomas. What’s that to you? 

Kane. O, nothing. I’m in a philosophical mood to¬ 
night. I’m wondering what you’re going to do with 
them .... when you die? 

Thomas ( blanches an instant). Who talks of death? 

Kane. Why not? It’s the only sure fact of life. How 
many of your millions can you take with you? 

Thomas {sneering ). Is this a sermon? 

Kane. Maybe .... What’s the use in piling up all 
this money when you have to leave it so soon? 

Thomas {interested in spite of himself). Well, what 
else is there to do? {Seats himself at left of table) 

Kane. Did you ever see that play called Everyman? 

Thomas. No; I’ve no time for theaters. 

Kane. Well, this Everyman, when he comes to die, 
finds there is just one thing he can take with him. What 
do you suppose that is? 

Thomas. H’m. I don’t know. 

Kane. His Good Deeds. 

Thomas. How does he know he can take them? 

Kane. It’s all acted out on the stage. Good Deeds 
goes down in the grave with him. 

Thomas. Pshaw! That’s only a play. 

Kane. But it looks reasonable, doesn’t it? 

Thomas. Well, I’m liberal to the churches. 

Kane {turns away in disgust). Ah, I forgot. 
You pay your way. I suppose you’11 buy the best seat 
in heaven? 

Thomas. You’re insolent. I won’t stand this cate¬ 
chising. {Again he tries to meet Kane’s eyes, but fails 
and looks nervously at his watch .) 

Kane. It isn’t 9 o’clock yet. 

Thomas {pours water in doctored glass and is about 
to drink ). It’s warm here. 

Kane {aside). Not yet {Puts hand over glass) 
There’s a fly in that. Take this {handing another glass ) 


Act Four 


61 


Thomas (drinks). By God! you’ll pay for this. I 
don’t know what it all means unless you have an in¬ 
terest in that board meeting. But I’ll make you pay! 

Kane. I am willing to pay , Thomas. I have computed 
to the last farthing the possible cost of defying you. 
We do pay for what we get. Did you ever think of that? 

Thomas. I always pay. my way. 

Kane. Yes; I forgot. I’m always wandering off on 
the notion that there may be something that money 
won’t pay for. 

Thomas. It will pay for the neck stretching of you 
anarchists. 

Kane. You’re right there, Thomas, about the anar¬ 
chist. But I’m the kind that spells chaos instead of 
freedom. I’m a sitter-in at your own game. The 
whole money power will soon be face to face, not with 
the dreamers of universal peace, but with its own kind 
driven to the wall. 

Thomas. That’s all Greek. 

Kane (musing). It’s Greek meeting Greek. It’s 
the anarchy of money meeting the anarchy of violence. 
Some of us have bowels of compassion and hearts for 
other things than counting money. So we fall behind 
in the game, and wake up to find your hands on our 
throats. Then there’s no choice but to cut and hack 
our way out. The rule of money will be overthrown 
by its own slaves, when enough of them are driven mad. 

Thomas. I don’t know what you’re talking about. 

Kane. Can’t you see that we have to pay for our 
money. 

Thomas. That’s foolish. Money buys things, but 
whoever heard of buying money? 

Kane. Ah, not the deaf and the blind, surely. But 
money is purchased, Thomas. Everyone pays— 
(A door is heard to open and close and heavy steps 
fall on the stairs ) 

Thomas (perspiring). It’s awful hot here. 

Kane (looks at watch ). It’s about 9. I’ll keep my 
word. You didn’t attend that board meeting. (Sets 
the doctored glass out and motions as tho he had just 
filled it, then pours out a glass for himself.) 

Thomas (taking glass in hand ). Well, are you going 
to open the door now? 

Kane (raising glass ). The door will open presently. 

Thomas is about to drink. 

Kane (staying him ). Listen, Thomas. You are going 
away from here now. I don’t know where you’re going, 
or when I’ll see you again, if ever. You may think 
I took a mean advantage of you tonight—but I was 
up against the wall, your hand on my throat, and I 
had no alternative. (Thomas makes sign of impatience) 
If I see you again and you think I owe you anything, 


62 


The Price of Money 

I’ll pay. Here’s a pleasant journey to you. ( Goth 
drink simultaneously ) Yon are free, old fellow, Adieu— 

Thomas falls back while Kane is yet talking. A 
shudder passes over him, his face twitches for an instant, 
and then he remains quiet and limp. The steps are heard 
in the hall. 

Kane hurriedly sprinkles Thomas coat with whiskey 
from a small pocket flask and pours the remainder in 
Thomas' empty glass. Lowers the light a little, then un¬ 
locks the door. 

Marian re-enters 

followed by Two Rough Looking Men. 

Marian. These gentlemen say they had an appoint¬ 
ment with you. 

Kane. Quite right. ( Aside ) You needn’t stay, Mar¬ 
ian. (Marian goes left. The men advance. Gives 
each handful of bills ). Well, here he is—too much whis¬ 
key. You boys drive him out on the Park road. Pick 
a dark place. Leave him in the bushes. There’ll be 
a howl in the newspapers. But you’ll get thru all 
right if you’re careful and quick. If anything happens, 
he hailed you on the street, and is only drunk. Stick 
to that. Come and see me tomorrow. Walk him down 
easy, now. He’s only drunk, remember. 

The Men raise Thomas, one on each side, his arms 
over their shoulders and pretend to walk him out. 

One of the Men ( thickly). There, pard brace ud. 
{They pass out. Kane sees them down the hallway, 
then returns and watches them from the window. 

Marian re-enters 
and goes toward window. 

Kane ( turning ). Keep back. One of us is enough. 
{Looks out again, then pulls down shade and leaves 
window). They’re off. I don’t believe a soul saw them. 

Marian {after a pause). How? 

Kane {shows vial). Cyanide. It acts like lightning. 
(Marian reaches for vial. He hands it to her silently 
—then ).; I don’t know whether there is life or death in 
that, Marian. 

Marian. There is rest in it—soft, sweet rest—with 
no bills to meet and no lies to live. 

Kane. Are you sure it means rest? 

Marian. Very sure. It is sleep, quiet, deep sleep. 

Kane. Yes; death is sleep. What else can it be? . . . 
And—then a new day? A better day, I wonder? 

Marian. It will not be worse. 

Kane. No; it couldn’t be ... . And the long, 
silent rest .... You have earned it, Marian. Your 
life has stood for the things that Allen talks about. 

Marian. What are they, pray? 

Kane. O, the impersonal life—forgetting one’s 
self, and all that. 


63 


Act Four 

Marian. No; I had no such ideas. 

Kane. Of course you hadn’t. He has the ideas. 
You lived them. 

Marian. I lived as I had to live. I did the things 
I thought would bring me the greatest— {grimly ) 
— 'pleasure . 

Kane. But you found this— pleasure —in usefulness 
.... I haven’t found mine that way. I’ve had 
pleasure .... but I’ve lived my life for myself. 

Marian. I don’t believe that, Martin. 

Kane. But it’s true .... or was—till I met you. 
Then everything seemed different .... I don’t 
understand it. 

Marian. They say a woman’s soul is a mirror in 
which a man finds himself reflected. 

Kane. I’d like to believe that. I’d have a better 
opinion of myself, now .... But more often they say 
a woman hasn’t a soul, and I’d rather think that of 
most women in whose eyes I have looked—that, too, 
would be more flattering to me. 

Marian. Perhaps it is true. I suppose women like 
me can’t have souls. 

Kane {takes her hand ). That is bitterness, Marian, 
and perhaps a touch of the world’s hypocrisy. Yours 
is the richest life I have ever known—and when things 
are adjusted— 

Marian. Are they ever adjusted? 

Kane {smiling). I’m using language again, Marian. 
On a specified date, in a formal manner— 

Marian. —standing in line before a white throne and 
hearing the account read out of a big book—as they 
taught in Sunday School? 

Kane. No; that won’t do. But things are adjusted. 
They adjust themselves and we really get what we 
want—what we want most. 

Marian. Do we? {Slowly the lights go down and the 
room becomes shadowy.) 

Kane. You wanted a crown and a halo right here on 
earth, Marian—and you’ve won both. There are thorns 
in the crown, but that’s the kind you demanded of 
life. You might have had a crown studded with dia¬ 
monds and sapphires, and magnesium light for a 
halo. But I think your choice w r as in better taste. 

A soft golden light begins to envelop Marian, making 
hers the only conspicuous figure on the stage. 

Marian {gratefully). I’m afraid my halo doesn’t 
shine very brightly. Martin. 

As Kane speaks all the light is centered about her head, 
like the halo which he sees. 

Kane. Moles can’t see the sun. But I see both the 
crown and the halo, Marian. They transfigure you in 
my eyes. 


64 


The Price of Money 

Marian. If you can see them, Martin—that’s enough. 

The light, still soft, envelopes them both as Kane 
searches her eyes intently. 

Marian (r aptly ). There are no thorns in the crown, 
now. 

Kane. I see in your eyes, Marian, more than I knew 
could be. 

Marian. We have known each other— 

Kane. —Ahvays— 

Marian. Always—it seems. 

Kane. I haven’t measured time since we met. 

Marian. Did you see—the halo—from the very first? 

Again the light plays about her head as a halo, for 
an instant. 

Kane. No; I was blind.still a mole. I 

could only feel. When you had gone the halo came, 
tho I didn’t know what it was. A pale rose-hued mist 
was around the image of you that haunted me—till 
we met again— 

Marian. We met again—so soon—so strangely . . . 
You were shocked— 

Kane. No; the mist became a golden halo then. It 
rose between us. ( Steps back a pace out of the light) 
It has kept us at arm’s length. 

Marian. It was all like a dream to me— 

The room is quite dark now and the spot light is weak, 
making the two figures appear shadowy. At 
times a small powerful light illumes her head and 
shoulders. They are oblivious to all the world but each 
other, and the lights from the gallery attempt to portray 
them to the audience as they see themselves — alone, in 
a strange new sphere. 

Kane ( continuing) And it seefned to suggest-— 
almost to reveal—something more in you than the 
Form of a Woman—and I hungered for it! 

Marian ( eagerly ). And you found, Martin,—you 
found it—something more than the form—? 

Kane ( reaching her hand again ). I found—I found 
it, Marian. (Slowly) I found what none may find— 
and keep—and live. 

Marian. It’s life itself you found, Martin. 

And I found! I also found— 

Kane (quietly ). What, Marian? 

Marian (gravely). A soul.a man! 

Kane (after a pause kisses her hand reverently; then 
closer, searching her eyes). What I see in your eyes, 
Marian. I’d die a thousand times to reach and touch! 

Marian ( madly ). What’s death? Why say death? 
All around is death? Lies—money—daily life is death! 

(Her eyes luring him ) O! look deep! I show you more 
than life! 

Kane (his arm gently about her). I see. 








Act Four 


65 

. (He gazes silently ) And to enter is but to 

cease to die. (Silently they regard each other. 

Footsteps sound outside: he leads her to chair right) 
Marian, we’ll find what’s back of life! 

Marian (whispers eagerly as he leaves her). We’ll 
die to live! 

Kane turns up light and goes toward door. 

Gradually the spot light fades and the room, is normally 
lighted, tho dimly, as before. 

Mead enters 

He is excited and would speak. 

Kane (interrupting ). I expected you, Allen. 

Mead. But not the news I bring— 

Kane. I can guess it. Delay it for a moment—till I 
keep my word—and show you—the woman of Tony’s. 

Mead. O, I’ve lost all curiosity about her. 

Marian (starts ). Must that be? 

Kane (aside to her ). It is safer. Trust me—and 
Allen. I’ll show him the halo—he can see. (To Mead) 
Revive your curiosity, old man. (Takes his hand) 
Come, I will show you a woman with a soul. (Leads 
him to Marian, who rises and stands neither abashed 
nor defiant). This, Allen, is the—woman of Tony’s. 

Mead (astonished, starts, profoundly moved, looks 
at her inquiringly). Is it true? 

Marian. Yes. 

Kane. Are words needed, Allen—explanations? 

Mead. None. (Takes her offered hand and boivs 
lowly to her. Rather staggers left and sinks in chair ) 
The tragedy of Christianity. 

Kane (goes to him and lays a hand on his shoulder). 
My boy, there’s a halo about her. Can you see it? 
Look. 

Again the small spot light plays around Marian’s 
head, and there is pictured to the audience what Mead 
sees subjectively. 

Mead. Yes—you’re right. (Goes to Marian, takes 
both her hands, looking at her frankly) Mrs. Wilson— 
mother! 

Marian (trembles a little, her eyes glisten). Allen— 
a mother’s heart thanks you—a woman’s soul, if it 
may be —(Presses his hands warmly, then as he turns 
back to Kane, softly): I have won. Life is kind. I have 
won. 

Kane. Your news, Allen— (aside). My boys fum¬ 
bled? I thought they would. 

Mead. Thomas found dead in a cab on Park road— 

Kane. Any arrests? 

Mead. Two huskies. They’re sweating them—hose 
ends and water—third degree— 

Kane. The devil! I forgot that. (Goes to telephone) 
Is the ’phone in order, Marian? 



66 


The Price of Money 

Marian. Yes. What is it? 

Kane ( has his number). Captain Aldrich? This is 
Martin Kane. Yes. Those huskies you’re sweating— 
not yet? Good! They know nothing about it. I’ll be 
over to you with the right party, if you’ll leave them 
alone, i was there. I know the whole thing. No; it 
was done in a saloon—quarrel over stock. Give me 
twenty minutes. I’ll clear up the whole case. Yes— 
yes. Goodby. 

Mead. You saw him killed? 

Kane ( quietly ). I killed him as he sat in that chair. 

Marian reaches for his hand silently. 

Mead. It can’t be true, Martin! You a murderer? 

Kane. There was no other way. The power of his 
money rose before me like a mountain of granite. Ten 
drops of cyanide was the mystic mantram that removed 
the mountain. ( To Marian ) Better wash that glass. 
It’s dangerous. 

Marian takes the glass and goes. 

Mead. But why? It wasn’t worth it. I could have 
gone away— 

Kane. He threatened Grace. 

Mead. Grace-! 

Kane. He had mother and daughter in a death grip. 
I had no alternative. 

Mead ( grasping Kane's hand). Martin! Martin! 
I can’t talk— 

Kane. Then don’t; let me do the talking. 

Mead. And Grace— 

Kane. Hasn’t an inkling of anything. It’s up to 
you. 

Mead (still wringing Kane's hands). My 'life for 
them both, Martin. 

Kane. Your life (aside, lightly ) and my death—and 
I the luckier. 

Mead. Those men may confess. Let me— 

Kane (calmly). Don’t interfere, Allen. You’ll spoil 
everything. The boys won’t blab if I’m on time. 

Mead. My God! Old man! they’ll hang you! 

Kane (smiling). They won’t come within a mile 
of it. 

Mead. But you left me out of it, Martin. I can’t 
forgive you that. 

Kane. You’ll have to, Allen. Save yourself for great¬ 
er ends. It’s money against life the world over. 

Mead. But it can’t be righted this way, Martin. 
Blood solves nothing. 

Kane. Still hoping to right things? 

Mead. O, it’s well to hope, I’m sure. 

Kane. It’s all that’s left. Blood solves nothing, 
as you say, and neither side can win. Money battles 
against life and life battles to gain the thing that kills 




Act Four 


67 


it. If there is a hope it's in you dreamers who hold 
life worth more than money—in your children’s 
children—perhaps. 

Marian re-enters 

and goes to Kane who is near the door. 

Kane (<quickly changing to his old light cynacism). 
Well, I must be getting over—a little private meeting 
that I really must attend. One little job and then— 
(Sees their eyes moistening) Say, it’s damn bad taste 
for you two to be standing here like separate tales of 
woe. I’m going to tell the story of my life to a police¬ 
man pretty soon. (More earnestly) Out it out. I mean 
it. Idle tears right no wrongs and cure no ills. Senti¬ 
ment is easy and fades quickly. I’d rather be remem¬ 
bered longer and have fewer tears now. Besides, you 
need your wits for the next few hours. See my lawyers 
in the morning, Allen. I’ve lived my life and enjoyed 
every pang of it. What’s finer than to end it when and 
how you will, laughing in the teeth of Fate, its master 
instead of slave? 

Marian (holding out her hand ). Martin— 

Kane (goes to her). Marian, shall we struggle to 
live—perhaps to drift apart—and lose—? 

Marian (radiantly, the light again playing upon her), 
It’s more than life, we want, Martin! 

Kane (lightly, kissing her hand). Queen of women, 
I salute you. (Gazes at her intently as he backs toward 
door, turns an instant to Mead in passing, their hands 
meet) So long, Allen. See you tomorrow, maybe. 

Mead (struggling). You know, Martin—you know— 

Kane (at the door ). Every word of it, old man. 
(His hand is on the door, he is looking in Marian’s 
eyes.) As we say in gay Paree, au revoir! (The door 
bursts open, 

Grace and Wilson re-enter 

She is dressed in white with large black scarf loosely 
about her shoulders. She is flushed with excitement. 
Wilson is in his evening suit. 

Grace (catches Kane as she enters and they whirl 
around in a dance. She stops to say): O, you’re all here. 
It was glorious, mother! O, such dancing—the Blue 
Danube! (Kane catches her again and they watlz a 
strain) The music and the motion just melt into one. 
Father, you know that—play a bar of Ase’s death 
(Wilson goes to piano) Why, you just love death 
when you see her dance the death of Ase. (Wilson 
plays and she imitates the closing scene of Ase’s dance 
of Death from the Peer Gynt suite, dropping gracefully 
in a heap in the center of the room, her swirling black 
scarf coiled about her drooping head, as the curtain 
descends on the Last Act.) 

END OF THE PLAY 







16 1911 




. 

































One copy del. to Cat. Div. 




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